Harvest Moment

Strain, you horses! whirr, you wheels! Bind this ripened grain! And muffle to oblivion That whistle of a train!

O strange that when I pause a bit To oil a squeaking gear, A gypsy note should leap from far And fall upon my ear!

For here is yellow grain that kinks, (It is too ripe to stand) And here are horses wet with sweat That wait my guiding hand—

So whirr, you wheels! lay that call! But oh, I want the pain!— Then mark you lay it not too well That it may strike again.