It stands, a squat figure, like a Buddha, In an army of bared yellow heads. It reaches out huge arms in bold petition And the sheaves of a harvest bow in submission. With a quivering body And a head flung upward to the sky, Its eager defiant voice is raised in song, Flinging a golden tribute to a throng Of clouds, and to the sun -- and they look on. Its song is endless, tireless, merciless; But evening comes And the brain-child of the earth at harvest-time Is silent -- Its arms are folded stiffly on its breast And the fountain of its golden song Is but a vibrant hum in the ear of evening. It goes to sleep beside its booty -- A yellow-saffron mountain. |