Robert Frost 
Robert Frost 

Whilst the greatest effort has been made to ensure the quality of this text, due to the historical nature of this content, in some rare cases there may be minor issues with legibility. The ploughman, going up and down, Ridge after ridge man’s tide-mark leaves, And turns the hard grey soil to brown. Striding, he measures out the earth In lines of life, to rain and sun; And every year that comes to birth Sees him still striding on and on. The seasons change, and then return; Yet still, in blind, unsparing ways, However I may shrink or yearn.