All Winter Through I Bow My Head Beneath The Driving Rain; The North Wind Powders Me With Snow And Blows Me Black Again; At Midnight 'Neath A Maze Of Stars I Flame With Glittering Rime, And Stand, Above The Stubble, Stiff As Mail At Morning-Prime. But When That Child, Called Spring, And All His Host Of Children, Come, Scattering Their Buds And Dew Upon Those Acres Of My Home, Some Rapture In My Rags Awakes; I Lift Void Eyes And Scan The Skies For Crows, Those Ravening Foes, Of My Strange Master, Man. I Watch Him Striding Lank Behind His Clashing Team, And Know Soon Will The Wheat Swish Body High Where Once Lay Sterile Snow; Soon Shall I Gaze Across A Sea Of Sun-Begotten Grain, Which My Unflinching Watch Hath Sealed For Harvest Once Again.