Monkman, F. Robina. “Late Sowing.” Canadian Poetry Magazine 2.4 (1938): 20.
The day is spent, here in this windless hollow
Night kneels before the last light’s paling roods;
Above these lonely fields so long lain fallow
The prisoned silence broods;
From this bleak sod, long since the last faint ember
Of April flame has passed, the whitethroats’s singing
Is but a dream where only dreams remember
The swift, clear pattern of a swallow’s winging.
Here, where the chill of hoar frost faintly lingers
And shadows build dark ramparts, bar on bar,
The last seed falters from my quivering fingers
And falls like a lost star.
The clouds close out all promise of the morrow,
And suddenly I tremble, clearly knowing
That only barren grief, and bitter sorrow
Shall be the harvest from so late a sowing.