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SPADES take up leaves
No better than spoons,
And bags full of leaves
Are light as balloons.


I mage a great noise
Of rustling all day
Like rabbit and deer
Running away.


But the mountains I raise
Elude my embrace,
Flowing over my arms
And into my face.


I may load and unload
Again and again
Till I fill the whole shed,
And what have I then?


Next to nothing for weight;
And since they grew duller
From contact with earth,
Next to nothing for color.


Next to nothing for use.
But a crop is a crop,
And who's to say where
The harvest shall stop?