A Legend of Devonshire
There were three daughters long ago,
In a lonely house that faced the sea;
They sent their father forth to plough
The narrow meadow that skirts the sea.
The autumn fogs are drifting by,
The old man's wits are dull and numb;
He has opened the barn where the young colts lie
Safe from the biting frosts to come.
He has taken the plough-gear and harnessed three
Hot young bloods that no lash will bear;
The rain is falling—he cannot see
If young or old be harnessed there.
He is ploughing the meadow that skirts the sea—
Old hands a-quivering with the cold;
The furrows are running crookedly,
And the share is clogged with the clinging mould.
The crow and daw fly fast to seat
Their food, while afar the sea-gulls scream;
The rain has changed to a stinging sleet;
He is ploughing as one who ploughs in a dream.
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