Henry Newbolt

A Sower

With sanguine looks
  And rolling walk
Among the rooks
  He loved to stalk,

While on the land
  With gusty laugh
From a full hand
  He scattered chaff.

Now that within
  His spirit sleeps
A harvest thin
  The sickle reaps;

But the dumb fields
  Desire his tread,
And no earth yields
  A wheat more red.