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THE SOWER.
     Sitting in a porchway cool,
       Fades the ruddy sunlight fast,
     Twilight hastens on to rule—
       Working hours are wellnigh past

     Shadows shoot across the lands;
       But one sower lingers still,
     Old, in rags, he patient stands,—
       Looking on, I feel a thrill.

     Black and high his silhouette
       Dominates the furrows deep!
     Now to sow the task is set,
       Soon shall come a time to reap.

     Marches he along the plain,
       To and fro, and scatters wide
     From his hands the precious grain;
       Moody, I, to see him stride.

     Darkness deepens. Gone the light.
       Now his gestures to mine eyes
     Are august; and strange—his height
       Seems to touch the starry skies.

     TORU DUTT.


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