S cattering the seeds of fire that are the sparks of spring A cross the winter embers of the earth T he sower traverses the field. O nce more the circle-furrow through the seasons' soil R eturns to find its origin. A bove the furrowed field the dipper hangs R enewer of the cycle rising with the moonset; E ldest of signs. P loughman, behold: O ver your day's work done, the ages speak in stars. T ake the reins of life into your hands E ternity will lend them for a while, though time gives space to do N o more than guide one furrow, sow one season's seed E ven this much is precious; your hands are on the wheel. T read softly on the earth: it sleeps, and for now it is yours. O ver all works the beasts of heaven move: P lough, seed and sickle to the earth are set E ach in its time; each in its due day. R emember, in the morning of impatience, in the eve of weariness, A ll tasks have their day; each day its due end. R evolve the cycles in your mind: O rbiting the hub of changelessness, T ail in its jaws, the rim of season wheels. A s the earth turns, till till turns earth no more, S ower and ploughman hold the wheels of work. S A T O R A R E P O T E N E T O P E R A R O T A S