Underneath their eider-robe <br />Russet swede and golden globe, <br />Feathered carrot, burrowing deep, <br />Steadfast wait in charmed sleep; <br />Treasure-houses wherein lie, <br />Locked by angels' alchemy, <br />Milk and hair, and blood, and bone, <br />Children of the barren stone; <br />Children of the flaming Air, <br />With his blue eye keen and bare, <br />Spirit-peopled smiling down <br />On frozen field and toiling town- <br />Toiling town that will not heed <br />God His voice for rage and greed; <br />Frozen fields that surpliced lie, <br />Gazing patient at the sky; <br />Like some marble carven nun, <br />With folded hands when work is done, <br />Who mute upon her tomb doth pray, <br />Till the resurrection day. <br /> <br /> <br />Eversley, 1845.<br /><br />Charles Kingsley<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-poetry-of-a-root-crop/
