9
The big doors of the country barn stand open and ready,The dried grass of the harvest-time loads the slow-drawn wagon,The clear light plays on the brown gray and green intertinged,The armfuls are pack’d to the sagging mow.
I am there, I help, I came stretch’d atop of the load,I felt its soft jolts, one leg reclined on the other,I jump from the cross-beams and seize the clover and timothy,And roll head over heels and tangle my hair full of wisps.