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Harden, let the green build up
On the battered brass knobs of the hames.
This old manure scent is dry, and very fi ne.
Long blades of the afternoon
Slope in through the drop-siding,
Slit the dimness. The light wind
Of late afternoon carries clearly
The fl y-buzz of a whole fl eet
Of tractors, over the fl at brown fi elds.
the man of feeling
Let it go on, he says,
The sweet, steady humming
Of time, and leans again
In the light of the lamp, outside
The gray and dripping day,
Its light entering the window and setting
Its pewter-colored shine
on the back of his hand, his books
In reach, the three or four people
He loves best, at their own doings
In the near middle distance
Of his life this wintry day
As he enters his fi ftieth year,
Let it go on,
That sweet hum, let there be
No end to it, ever.
Curious how ready he is to die
At moments when he looks around
Quite happy with things -- driving