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Twisted Furrows

I was Christly once,
And she guided my plough
Straight from headland to headland.
Ah she comes not now.

My furrow twists like falsehood
The field's length and breadth.
Oh straight is truth, I cry out,
But my cry is death.

She will not come again
My furrow to guide
For I have sined the unforgivable
And my plough has lied.

She will not come again
Till my field is ploughed - 
I have not gone humbly cheerful
With shoulders bowed.

§ This is a variant of the poem in Ploughman and Other Poems.
Marked: '1931 Unpub.'

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