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The Scarecrow – Walter de la Mare
All winter through I bow my head
Beneath the driving rain.
The north wind powders me with snow
And blows me black again;
At midnight ’neath a maze of stars
I flame with glittering rime,
And stand above the stubble, stiff
As mail at morning prime.
But when that child called spring, and all
His host of children, come,
Scattering their buds and dew upon
These acres of my home.
Some rapture in my rags awakes,
I lift void eyes and scan
The skies for crows, those ravening foes
Of my strange master, Man.
I watch him striding lank behind
His clashing team, and know
Soon will the wheat swish body high
Where once lay sterile snow;
Soon shall I gaze across a sea
Of sun-begotten grain
Which my unflinching watch hath sealed
For harvest once again.
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