Taking a book into the fields, the speaker sets himself apart from the working world. He shelters from a shower, reads quickly, and ignores any passing smile. A bird and horse approach; the horse seems happy to stay and listen, as if nature welcomes his poetry. But a ploughman stares, puzzled by this idle figure lying on a molehill, laughing aloud at a finished song. The speaker compares the ploughman’s rough curiosity to a croaking raven, while a lark’s song charms him all day long. He dismisses the ploughman’s opinion—praise would be worthless, blame even less. Urged on by an inner voice, he toils at his verses, determined that these fields will be known through his song. The mood is one of quiet defiance and solitary contentment, a humorous clash between dreamer and worker, but ultimately a serene faith in art’s lasting power.
The Frightened Ploughman — Summary
I went in the fields with the leisure I got, The stranger might smile but I heeded him not, The hovel was ready to screen from a shower, And the book in my pocket was read in an hour.
The bird came for shelter, but soon flew away; The horse came to look, and seemed happy to stay; He stood up in quiet, and hung down his head, And seemed to be hearing the poem I read.
The ploughman would turn from his plough in the day And wonder what being had come in his way, To lie on a molehill and read the day long And laugh out aloud when he'd finished his song.
The pewit turned over and stooped oer my head Where the raven croaked loud like the ploughman ill-bred, But the lark high above charmed me all the day long, So I sat down and joined in the chorus of song.
The foolhardy ploughman I well could endure, His praise was worth nothing, his censure was poor, Fame bade me go on and I toiled the day long Till the fields where he lived should be known in my song.