All winter through I bow my head <br />beneath the driving rain; <br />the North Wind powders me with snow <br />and blows me black again; <br />at midnight 'neath a maze of stars <br />I flame with glittering rime, <br />and stand above the stubble, stiff <br />as mail at morning-prime. <br />But when that child called Spring, and all <br />his host of children come, <br />scattering their buds and dew upon <br />these acres of my home, <br />some rapture in my rags awakes; <br />I lift void eyes and scan <br />the sky for crows, those ravening foes, <br />of my strange master, Man. <br />I watch him striding lank behind <br />his clashing team, and know <br />soon will the wheat swish body high <br />where once lay a sterile snow; <br />soon I shall gaze across a sea <br />of sun-begotten grain, <br />which my unflinching watch hath sealed <br />for harvest once again.<br /><br />Walter de la Mare<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-scarecrow-6/
