Outstanding In His Field

Upon this sere croft
plows the simple simon,
who thought not nor cared
every whit wholly through.
How once in the peated bog
his meager harvest throve;
Now his lost acre tilled
to affecktless cru.

The wight of aught
o’ersees the reaping.
Ought not it call wierward
as it wends its wont
Upon the battled field,
where the weird
In beat attitude await
their gleanings due?

The dingled farmer stands all night
alone in the dark.
And in the chilly unthought fraughtness
wonders
Where his moon went wrong
in spite of how he strove.
And in the wetted morning dew
it finally dawns upon him,

‘Damn all my ayes,
the noes have it.’