The isle was barren. Far as hawk may scan
In moors it roll’d up to a headland bare
Save for one narrow patch, by ceaseless care
Sumptuous with corn. Against the sky a Man
Digging the waste I saw,—bow’d veteran
A stubborn spade he drave in stubborn ground
And root and rock flung sheer without a sound
Over the bleak edge.... Then anew began.
“You, who have lodged in the teeth of the abyss
Your cabin low, and triumph rich as this
Wrung from the ocean-bitter mountain side,
What help’d you most to bring such treasure out?”
He stood, and after scrutiny replied,
“The thing on which I lean, the Spade of Doubt.”