Стих маленький про England

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?