The dried grass of the harvest-time loads the slow-drawn wagon

Song of Myself

Walt whitman

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.