The Sheaves
by Edwin Arlington Robinson (1869-1935)
Where long the shadows of the wind had rolled,Green wheat was yielding to the change assigned;And as by some vast magic undivinedThe world was turning slowly into gold.Like nothing that was ever bought or soldIt waited there, the body and the mind;And with a mighty meaning of a kindThat tells the more the more it is not told.
So in a land where all days are not fair,Fair days went on till on another dayA thousand golden sheaves were lying there,Shining and still, but not for long to stay—As if a thousand girls with golden hairMight rise from where they slept and go away.
