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Spades take
up leaves No better than spoons, And bags full of
leaves Are light as balloons.
I make 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?
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