Forth went Sower. People smiled,
And thought 'twas strange indeed.
No wife had he –no mate, no child,
Only himself to feed.
Yet springtime mile, or winter wild,
Alike he sowed his seed.
Forth went the Reaper. People bowed,
And bared was every head.
They thronged him, that adoring crowd,
They crouched to him for bread
With blessing loud. And, justly proud,
That famished host fed.