Friedrich Schiller, Rätsel der Turandot

What is its name? – this thing, whose worth so few perceive,

Yet which the greatest Emperor’s hand is pleased to hold,

It has been made to cut, to slice, to cleave,

Its next of kin’s a sword of steel so cold.

A thousand wounds it makes, and yet no blood will flow,

No-one is robbed, yet greater grows the common weal,

The whole world of its victory does know,

It keeps life smooth and on an even keel.

It has the oldest cities founded,

The mightiest empires raised out of the dust,

And yet it brings no war, no guns have sounded,

And happy are the folk who in it trust!

This thing of iron, and valued by so few,

That China’s emperor takes in his own hand

To honour thus the first day of the year,

This tool more innocent than the sword,

That yokes the world to pious work –

O, who would leave the wild and barren steppes

Of Tartary, where only hunters roam

And shepherds graze their flocks,

To travel to THIS land, where fields are green with crops,

And see rise up a hundred cities full of human life,

Where peaceful laws do gently happiness create,

And not revere the priceless tool

That brought these blessings one and all: the PLOUGH?