Fling wide the grain for those who throw
The clanking shuttle to and fro,
In the long row of humming rooms,
And into ponderous masses wind
The web that, from a thousand looms,
Comes forth to clothe mankind.
Strew, with free sweep, the grain for them,  

By whom the busy thread
Along the garment's even hem
And winding seam is led;
A pallid sisterhood, that keep
The lonely lamp alight,
In strife with weariness and sleep,
Beyond the middle night.
Large part be theirs in what the year
Shall ripen for the reaper here.

Scatter the wheat for shipwrecked men,
Who, hunger-worn, rejoice again
In the sweet safety of the shore,
And wanderers, lost in woodlands drear.
Whose pulses bound with joy to hear
Freely the golden spray be shed
For him whose heart, when night comes down
On the close alleys of the town,
Is faint or lack of bread.
In chill roof-chambers, bleak and bare,
or the damp cellar's stifling air,
She who now sees, in mute despair,
Her children pine of food,  

Shall feel the dews of gladness start
To lids long tearless, and shall part
The sweet loaf with a grateful heart,
Among her thin pale brood.
Dear, kindly Earth, whose breast we till!
Oh, for thy famished children, fill
Where'er the sower walks,
Fill the rich ears that shade the mould
With grain for grain, a hundredfold,
To bend the sturdy stalks.  

Brethren, the sower's task is done.
The seed is in its winter bed.
Now let the dark-brown mould be spread,
To hide it from the Sun,
And leave it to the kindly care
Of the still earth and brooding air,
As when the mother, from her breast,
Lays the hushed babe apart to rest,
And shades its eyes, and waits to see
How sweet its waking smile will be.
The tempest now may smite, the sleet
All night on the droned furrow beat,
And winds that, from the cloudy hold,
Of winter breathe the bitter cold,
Stiffen to stone the mellow mould,
Yet safe shall líe the wheat;
Till, out of heaven's unmeasured blue,
Shall walk again the genial year.
To wake with warmth and nurse with dew
The germs we lay to slumber here.

Oh blessed harvest yet to be!
Abide thou with the Love that keeps,
In its warm bosom, tenderly,
The Life which wakes and that which sleeps.
The Love that leads the willing spheres
Along the unending track of years,
And watches o'er the sparrow's nest,
Shall brood above thy winter rest,
And raise thee from the dust, to hold
Light whisperings with the winds of May,
And fill thy spikes with living gold,
From summer's yellow ray;
Then, as thy garners give thee forth,
on what glad errands shall thou go,
Wherever, o'er the waiting earth,
Roads wind and rivers flow!
The ancient East shall welcome thee
To mighty marts beyond the sea,
And they who dwell where palm-groves sound
To summer winds the whole year round,
Shall watch, in gladness, from the shore,
The sails that bring thy glistening store.

William Cullen Bryant
(1794- 1878)
Estadounidense.

Aspera é a terra, o esforço náo tem prémio,
porém á sombra do pomar -rubro pomar!-
dos péssegos do sol
em ti eu vejo, ó torso
de haste, o lirio nunca ausente.
Nenhuma flor, é certo, aponta em meu caminho,
mas desde que teus seios desabrocham na aridez,
em pensamento ressucito a graça de uma vide
ou faço resplender, á luz do ocaso,
o rosto em fogo das romás.

Aspera é a terra:
porém quando te despes, calmo trevo,
contaminado pelo aroma de jasmins sem consistência
ergue-se no ar
um canto nupcial de pólens tontos;
e ao embalo dos astros renascendo,
eu semeador,
confiante no futuro,
lavro meu campo ensanguentado de papoulas
com touros côr de mar ou potros como luas.

Péricles Eugênio Da Silva Ramos
(1919-  )
Brasileño.

Sudorosa la faz, desnudo el pecho, 
de simientes henchida su escarcela, 
bajo el sol que furioso le flagela, 
va sembrando el buen hombre su barbecho.

Al pasar, vida siembra en el estrecho 
surco reciente que su pie nivela;  
en tanto sorda cólera revela 
el áspide traidor que está en acecho.

Y siempre así, bajo el flagelo ardiente, 
cegado por su afán a ver no alcanza 
la serpentina piel que flores miente.

A la postre hallará, como el Divino 
Sér que sembraba el bien y la esperanza, 
la traición y la muerte en su camino,

Francisco Lazo Martí
(1864 -1909)
Venezolano.

En un campo blanco
semillitas negras.
               "¡Que llueva, que llueva!"
Cómo canta el surco!
-Sembrador ¿qué siembras? 
               "iQue llueva, que llueva!"
-Yo siembro arco iris,
albas y trompetas.
               "¡Que llueva, que llueva!"

Rafael Olivares Figueroa
(1893- )
Venezolano.

De mi mano inconsciente cayeron 
dos o tres minúsculas semillas de odio...
Germinaron, crecieron... Son árboles 
de copas siniestras y agresivos troncos.

Para derribarlos, pasaré la vida  
el hacha en la mano y el llanto en los ojos...

Y pensar que los granos cayeron
sin saber ni cuándo ni cómo!

Enrique González Martínez
(1871-1951)
Mejicano.