The same things over

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


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