Excerpt from Robert Frost The ploughman, going up and down, Ridge after ridge man's tide-mark leaves, And turns the hard grey soil to brown. Striding, he measures out the earth In lines of life, to rain and sun; And every year that comes to birth Sees him still striding on and on. The seasons change, and then return; Yet still, in blind, unsparing ways, However I may shrink or yearn.