The Plowboy

I’ll plow myself a pillow,
I’ll plow myself a bed,
Time goes by like a furrow
And soon I will be dead.

Then the field may wither,
Then the plow may rust,
And the gate sag on its hinges,
While I sleep because I must.

And I will not remember
That I was tamed for this:
To work in the yoke of summer
For the wage of winter’s kiss.