There is a plough that hath no share, Only a coulter that parteth fair;
But the ridges they rise To a terrible size
Or ever the coulter comes near to tear: The horses and ridges fierce battle make; The horses are safe, but the plough may break.
Seed cast in its furrows, or green or sear, Will lift to the sun neither blade nor ear:
Down it drops plumb Where no spring-times come,
Nor needeth it any harrowing gear; Wheat nor poppy nor blade has been found Able to grow on the naked ground.