Did you think the land was harsh
Because it did not want your plow?
And to your soiled, calloused hands
It would not yield, nor would it bow.
Unmoved, you moved to slice the ground,
And scarred the earth to meet your need.
Heedless of the pain you caused
And threw, on virgin soil, your seed.
Where once the wild weeds would bloom
Tall tame plants have come to grow—
Those stiff straight soldiers march
In row, on row, on row, on row.
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