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Having a
wheel and four legs of its own
Has never availed the
cumbersome grindstone
To get it anywhere that I can
see.
These hands have helped it go, and even race;
Not all the motion, though, they ever lent,
Not all
tke miles it may have thought it went,
Have got it
one step from the starting place.
It stands beside
the same old apple tree.
The shadow of the apple tree
is thin
Upon it now its feet as fast in snow.
All
other farm machinery's gone in,
And some of it on no
more legs and wheel
Than the grindstone can boast to
stand or go.
(I'm thinking chiefly of the
wheelbarrow.)
For months it hasn't known the taste of
steel
Washed down with rusty water in a tin..
But
standing outdoors hungry, in the cold,
Except in
towns at night is not a sin.
And> anyway, it's
standing in the yard
Under a ruinous live apple tree
Has nothing any more to do with me,
Except that I
remember how of old
One summer day, all day I drove
it hard,
And someone mounted on it rode it hard
And he and I between us ground a blade.
I gave it the
preliminary spin
And poured on water (tears it might
have been);
And when it almost gaily jumped and
flowed,
A Father-Time-like man got on and rode,
Armed with a scythe and spectacles that glowed.
He
turned on will-power to increase the load
And slow me
down -- and I abruptly slowed,
Like coming to a
sudden railroad station.
I changed from hand to hand
in desperation.
I wondered what machine of ages gone
This represented an improvement on.
For all I knew it
may have sharpened spears
And arrowheads itself. Much
use.for years
Had gradually worn it an oblate
Spheroid that kicked and struggled in its gait,
Appearing to return me hate for hate;
(But I forgive
it now as easily
As any other boyhood enemy
Whose
pride has failed to get him anywhere).
I wondered who
it was the man thought ground
-The one who held the
wheel back or the one
Who gave his life to keep it
going round?
• I wondered if he really thought it
fair
For him to have the say when we were done.
Such were the bitter thoughts to which I turned.
Not
for myself was I so much concerned
Oh no --Although,
of course, I could have found
A better way to pass
the afternoon
Than grinding discord out of a
grindstone,
And beating insects at their gritty tune.
Nor was I for the man so much concerned.
Once when
the grindstone almost jumped its bearing
It looked as
if he might be badly thrown
And wounded on his blade.
So far from caring,
I laughed inside, and only
cranked the faster
(It ran as if it wasn't greased
but glued);
I'd welcome any moderate disaster
That
might be calculated to postpone
What evidently
nothing could conclude.
The thing that made me more
and more afraid
Was that we'd ground it sharp and
hadn't known,
And now were only wasting precious
blade.
And when he raised it dripping once and tried
The creepy edge of it with wary touch
And viewed it
over his glasses funny-eyed,
Only disinterestedly to
decide
It needed a turn more, I could have cried
Wasn't there a danger of a turn too much?
Mightn't we
make it worse instead of better?
I was for leaving
something to the whettot.
What if it wasn't all it
should be? I'd
Be satisfied if he'd be satisfied.
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