Over the Hill

This workman dredges home at dusk

With bluntly forward boots that toss

The roan earth out like chaff behind

His swung cap scooping cups of wind

He crests the hill and fills the sky,

His eyes' lit windows facing west

To take the lemon-coloured light

While the day slowly drains away,

Or strides from hill to hill and strikes

A match against the friendly stars

(Hanging his cap on the horn of the moon).

Now as he stands to light his pipe

With quite unconscious insolence,

He could move mountains if he cared,

But a mountain in the palm of one's hand

Is a troublesome thing, so he lets them lie--

Or lifts one, looks at it, quiets the trees,

Turns it slowly and puts it down.