Immortal

The last thin acre of stalks that stood

     Was never the end of the wheat.

Always something fled to the wood,

     As if the field had feet.

In front of the sickle something rose—

     Mouse, or weasel, or hare;

We struck and struck, but our worst blows

     Dangled in the air.

Nothing could touch the little soul

     Of the grain. It ran to cover,

And nobody knew in what warm hole

     It slept till the winter was over,

And early seeds lay cold in the ground.

     Then—but nobody saw—

It burrowed back with never a sound,

     And awoke the thaw.