This is work
That must be done
So do it.
I will,
I said I would,
I like to work
And I need the money.
Or not the money but to be
Left to work this field I need.
For these tools are what are mine
And these blisters tell me
I am a man.
But let it be this field:
Not for its good soil,
Not for my fellow hands
But because of its place.
Well placed, for from it we can
Hear that love, that carillon,
Whose bells reach no park and no shore,
None at leisure but only
Nearer fields, that are plowed
To the faded tang of long seconds
That bear foundry air,
Heavy from ore.
In this field,
When the good wind carries,
The hands can hear
The peals that call
As if to reverence him,
To whom,
I toil.
