The Plough

If you listen you will hear, from east to west,     Growing sounds of discontent and deep unrest.     It is just the progress-driven plough of God,     Tearing up the well-worn custom-bounded sod;     Shaping out each old tradition-trodden track     Into furrows, fertile furrows, rich and black.     Oh, what harvests they will yield     When they widen to a field.     They will widen, they will broaden, day by day,     As the Progress-driven plough keeps on its way.     It will riddle all the ancient roads that lead     Into palaces of selfishness and greed;     It will tear away the almshouse and the slum     That the little homes and garden plots may come.     Yes, the gardens green and sweet     Shall replace the stony street.     Let the wise man hear the menace that is blent     In this ever-growing sound of discontent.     Let him hear the rising clamour of the race     That the few shall yield the many larger space.     For the crucial hour is coming when the soil     Must be given to, or taken back by Toil     Oh, that mighty plough of God;     Hear it breaking through the sod!