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|The Threshing Machine|
No “fan is in his hand” for these|
Young villagers beneath the trees,
Watching the wheels. But I recall
The rhythm of rods that rise and fall,
Purging the harvest, over-seas.
No fan, no flail, no threshing-floor!|
And all their symbols evermore
Forgone in England nowthe sign,
The visible pledge, the threat divine,
The chaff dispersed, the wheat in store.
The unbreathing engine marks no tune,|
Steady at sunrise, steady at noon,
Inhuman, perfect, saving time,
And saving measure, and saving rhyme
And did our Ruskin speak too soon?
“No noble strength on earth” he sees|
“Save Hercules’ arm”; his grave decrees
Curse wheel and steam. As the wheels ran
I saw the other strength of man,
I knew the brain of Hercules.
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Lane Core Jr. (email@example.com)
Created April 14, 2001; not revised.