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.