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