From under the crunch of my man's boot <br />green oat-sprouts jut; <br />he names a lapwing, starts rabbits in a rout <br />legging it most nimble <br />to sprigged hedge of bramble, <br />stalks red fox, shrewd stoat. <br /> <br />Loam-humps, he says, moles shunt <br />up from delved worm-haunt; <br />blue fur, moles have; hefting chalk-hulled flint <br />he with rock splits open <br />knobbed quartz; flayed colors ripen <br />rich, brown, sudden in sunlight. <br /> <br />For his least look, scant acres yield: <br />each finger-furrowed field <br />heaves forth stalk, leaf, fruit-nubbed emerald; <br />bright grain sprung so rarely <br />he hauls to his will early; <br />at his hand's staunch hest, birds build. <br /> <br />Ringdoves roost well within his wood, <br />shirr songs to suit which mood <br />he saunters in; how but most glad <br />could be this adam's woman <br />when all earth his words do summon <br />leaps to laud such man's blood!<br /><br />Sylvia Plath<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ode-for-ted/
