Sonnet

In seasons mild and harsh the farmer waits
With patience uncorrupted and well-bound;
No thoughts ambitious pretty within him bates
Him from his nourished, life-producing ground.
Without defense his heart’s made pious by
His art, and neither wealth nor splendor fine
Can lead him from his earth, for to defy
His calling he cannot, by grace divine.
In summers scorched, Aurora always finds
Herself preceded - even Phoebus feels
He’s late inside his carriage as he binds
Those fiery steeds he humorlessly deals.
Upon the field the faithful farmer copes
With heat that might defeat his autumn hopes.