Though Inland Far We Be

Like flakes of snow when April sun laughs out,
Like leaves caught up and dancing in the breeze,
Behind the plough they throng, a careless route
Of jolly pirates that have quit the seas
And turned inland, to smell the broken earth
And catch what booty lies in that brown wake;
Or, circling on ahead, to ring with mirth
The ploughman's path, till he his way must take
Through clouds of flashing wings, as though there sped
A heavenly robber-band around his head.

Mary E. Pumphrey, Scotland, 1917.