Though Inland Far We Be
Like flakes of snow when April sun laughs out,
Like leaves caught up and dancing in the breeze,
Behind the plough they throng, a careless rout
Of jolly pirates that have quit the seas
And turned inland to smell the broken earth
And catch what booty lies in that brown wake;
page 142 Or circling on ahead, to ring with mirth
The ploughman's path, till he his way must take
Through clouds of flashing wings, as though there sped
A heavenly robber-band around his head.

Mary Pumphrey.