In the lowlands of the moors is a croft in the dale.
The red-winged blackbird roams upon the swale.
There the blooms flourish in the broad meadows.
The mackerel skies are opened by the rainbows.
Hitherto the soil of the land had been ploughed.
Therefore it is to sully then afterwards sowed.
Amidst the daily toils that are to be done.
It is the tilling of the seeds that have since gone.
There past yonder, in the depth of the hilly ground.
It is a ploughman making a belabouring sound.
Comments about this poem (Chiel by Franc Rodriguez )
Top 500 Poems
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
William Ernest Henley
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings