I was Christly once, And she guided my plough Straight from headland to headland. Ah she comes not now. My furrow twists like falsehood The field's length and breadth. Oh straight is truth, I cry out, But my cry is death. She will not come again My furrow to guide For I have sined the unforgivable And my plough has lied. She will not come again Till my field is ploughed - I have not gone humbly cheerful With shoulders bowed.
§ This is a variant of the poem in Ploughman and Other Poems.
Marked: ‘1931 Unpub.’