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To the Man After the Harrow
Now leave the check-reins slack,
The seed is flying far today -
The seed like stars against the black
Eternity of April clay.
This seed is potent as the seed
Of knowledge in the Hebrew Book,
So drive your horses in the creed
Of God the Father as a stook.
Forget the men on Brady's Hill.
Forget what Brady's boy may say.
For destiny will not fulfil
Unless you let the harrow play.
Forget the worm's opinion too
Of hooves and pointed harrow-pins,
For you are driving your horses through
The mist where Genesis begins.
poem by Patrick Kavanagh
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To the devil with so many masters, said the toad to the harrow.
Many maisters, quoth the Poddock to the Harrow, when every tind took her a knock.
At age 11 in 1960, I moved to an academic state secondary school, Harrow County Grammar School for Boys.
quote by Paul Nurse
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The allotted function of art is not, as is often assumed, to put across ideas, to propagate thoughts, to serve as an example. The aim of art is to prepare a person for death, to plough and harrow his soul, rendering it capable of turning to good.
quote by Andrei Tarkovsky
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Control
O Hunger, Hunger, I will harness thee
And make thee harrow all my spirit's glebe.
Of old the blind bard Herve sang so sweet
He made a wolf to plow his land.
poem by Sidney Lanier
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Never give in - never, never, never, never, in nothing great or small, large or petty, never give in except to convictions of honour and good sense. Never yield to force; never yield to the apparently overwhelming might of the enemy.
Winston Churchill in Speech, Harrow School (1941)
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Tall Nettles
TALL nettles cover up, as they have done
These many springs, the rusty harrow, the plough
Long worn out, and the roller made of stone:
Only the elm butt tops the nettles now.
This corner of the farmyard I like most:
As well as any bloom upon a flower
I like the dust on the nettles, never lost
Except to prove the sweetness of a shower.
poem by Edward Thomas
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My Funny Money
Money are so naughty and cunning,
They behave just stunning.
I go out – they follow me,
I come back – they harrow me.
They don’t want to come back home,
They would like a bit more to roam.
They sometimes don't want to go home with me at all.
They would like a bit more to stroll.
©Larisa Rzhepishevska (Odessa, Ukraine)
The 2nd of October,2011
poem by Larisa Rzhepishevska
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A trip to farthest Farmhouse
My little happy-go-lucky cart
Rolls towards the fields.
And I hear the faraway sound of breaking soil
With the harrow.
Sorry, I do not have any qualifications to be a farmer
But I have a hatchet and my broken-stringed lute.
Hope a farm lassie loves music
And I can sing a song to her lonely heart.
Humbly I dedicate this poem to the *Irish poet Mat Mooney.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Harrowing Feeling
You harrow my feelings like a log,
It is on flames, and entering the sweetness.
Describe the clatter and clang of tools
And find me a world of dangerous smoke.
A vent provides the air to be sweet
And wholly delicious, like the pastry
And the food of chocolates.
Necromancy smiles at my belongings
As it tinily mentions my name and holdings.
The harrowing emotions I devise
Are innocent for the time being.
Mighty logs of fire are crafted to aid
The air with smoke, and heat has entered
Like hell has exhaled.
poem by Naveed Akram
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No.16 (9th.08.2011)
No.16 came on the chart,
And like my own image to the windows of the world!
But with a sweet inner and a soft outer to make me who i am today,
And to pay the bills of love to me was like the muse of my poetry.
Coincidentally,
Exposed with the words of my mind!
But thousands of Poems and Poets have really shaped this world with their respective minds,
And like the joy of my muse in the land of beautiful women.
No.16 (9th.08.2011) ,
Yarrow, arrow, marrow, barrow, harrow, Jarrow, narrow;
I knew that it was there by the looks in your eyes! !
And like an expanse of dazzling crystal,
But my position was lifted up so high to 'No.16'.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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At Seven (Cavatina Sequence) (In Answer To Archibald Macleish)
Right through that summer the boy would wander
through the hillocks,
finding wild flowers, wild fruits and then left
burning hot rocks
and then returned to the large farmyard,
heard crowing cocks,
sneaked to the large shed on the heat of day,
while on business the farmer was away.
He would smell some diesoline coming from
the tank outside,
the oil and grease of the three big tractors
while he would hide;
ploughshares, the harrow, spades and picks
would be each side;
in his mind the farmer's harsh words had been:
'boys have to outside play, are not to be seen.'
[Reference: 'Eleven' by Archibald MacLeish.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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The old tree weeps
The old tree weeps, its branches low
bend over a path, winding slow
through tilting, toppling, broken stones
fading remains of treasured bones
hidden where moss and ivy grow.
Here lies John Peachey of Harrow
On which Byron sought long ago
phrases of love, amongst deaths thrones,
the old tree weeps.
Where young Allegra's remains know
that words are not enough to show
the lives that die beneath headstones
she was denied one of her own
her father's sins repaid her, so
the old tree weeps.
poem by Diana Rosser
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Amoretti LXVIII: Most Glorious Lord of Life
Most glorious Lord of life, that on this day,
Didst make thy triumph over death and sin:
And having harrow'd hell, didst bring away
Captivity thence captive, us to win:
This joyous day, dear Lord, with joy begin,
And grant that we for whom thou diddest die,
Being with thy dear blood clean wash'd from sin,
May live for ever in felicity.
And that thy love we weighing worthily,
May likewise love thee for the same again:
And for thy sake, that all like dear didst buy,
With love may one another entertain.
So let us love, dear love, like as we ought,
Love is the lesson which the Lord us taught.
poem by Edmund Spenser
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In Tenebris
Wintertime nighs;
But my bereavement-pain
It cannot bring again:
Twice no one dies.
Flower-petals flee;
But since it once hath been,
No more that severing scene
Can harrow me.
Birds faint in dread:
I shall not lose old strength
In the lone frost's black length:
Strength long since fled!
Leaves freeze to dun;
But friends cannot turn cold
This season as of old
For him with none.
Tempests may scath;
But love cannot make smart
Again this year his heart
Who no heart hath.
Black is night's cope;
But death will not appal
One, who past doubtings all,
Waits in unhope.
poem by Thomas Hardy
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Dusk
The frightened herds of clouds across the sky
Trample the sunshine down, and chase the day
Into the dusky forest-lands of gray
And sombre twilight. Far and faint, and high,
The wild goose trails his harrow, with a cry
Sad as the wail of some poor castaway
Who sees a vessel drifting far astray
Of his last hope, and lays him down to die.
The children, riotous from school, grow bold
And quarrel with the wind whose angry gust
Plucks off the summer-hat, and flaps the fold
Of many a crimson cloak, and twirls the dust
In spiral shapes grotesque, and dims the gold
Of gleaming tresses with the blur of rust.
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Shadow
Shape of everything, made of black reflection.
Contrasted from the yellow sun on the bricks' wall.
Body without face, passage without a view.
Figure that you cannot interview.
Shadow, snitcher of light
Hide, from fences of eyes,
For reaper strong and weird.
From the tree blow by the wind,
The leafs fly, attached to the pavements' sky.
Mixing around, invisible outline.
Of a cone pointed shape of irregular shade.
And the smoke held by the tree hock.
Heat the warm floor, of spots & shoots.
Intoxicating the shadow, like through harrow.
Fading away on the windy shallow.
poem by Luca Menin
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At The Sound Of The Drum
ARE you going for a soldier with your curly yellow hair,
And a scarlet coat instead of the smock you used to wear?
Are you going to drive the foe as you used to drive the plough?
Are you going for a soldier now?
I am going for a soldier, and my tunic is of red
And I'm tired of woman's chatter, and I'll hear the drum instead;
I will break the fighting line as you broke your plighted vow,
For I'm going for a soldier now.
For a soldier, for a soldier are you sure that you will go,
To hear the drums a-beating and to hear the bugles blow?
I'll make you sweeter music, for I'll swear another vow--
Are you going for a soldier now?
I am going for a soldier if you'd twenty vows to make;
You must get another sweetheart, with another heart to break,
For I'm sick of lies and women and the harrow and the plough,
And I'm going for a soldier now!
poem by Edith Nesbit
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