The Scarecrow
All winter through I bow my head Beneath the driving rain; The North Wind powders me with snow And blows me black again; At midnight 'neath a maze of stars I flame with glittering rime, And stand, above the stubble, stiff As mail at morning-prime. But when that child called Spring, and all His host of children, come, Scattering their buds and dew upon These acres of my home, Some rapture in my rags awakes; I lift void eyes and scan The sky for crows, those ravening foes, Of my strange master, Man. I watch him striding lank behind His clashing team, and know Soon will the wheat swish body high Where once lay a sterile snow; Soon I shall gaze across a sea Of sun-begotten grain, Which my unflinching watch hath sealed For harvest once again.
Walter de la Mare ~
