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?