The farmer plows the same soil over,
Plants this year’s corn on last year’s clover,
Walks the new rows
That this year knows,
Where last year’s rows are seen no more,
And finds that some new harvest grows
Where some old harvest grew before.
And like the farmer’s field is duty:
The oldest task has some new beauty.
At morning’s sound
The same old ground
We plow, and walk the same old ways:
But call it not “the same old round”–
Today’s task is always today’s.
Who drives a spindle, writes a letter,
I know each day can do it better,
Love some task more
Than loved before,
Make some more noble fashioned thing.
Ah, yes, we plow the same soil o’er,
But every morning it is spring!
— Douglas Malloch