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THRESHING MACHINE, by                    
First Line: It stands, a squat figure, like a buddha
Last Line: A yellow-saffron mountain.
Subject(s): Threshing Machines


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.





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