The Grindstone

Having a wheel and four legs of its ownHas never availed the cumbersome grindstoneTo get it anywhere that I can see.These hands have helped it go, and even race;Not all the motion, though, they ever lent,Not all the miles it may have thought it went,Have got it one step from the starting place.It stands beside the same old apple tree.The shadow of the apple tree is thinUpon it now, its feet are fast in snow.All other farm machinery's gone in,And some of it on no more legs and wheelThan the grindstone can boast to stand or go.(I'm thinking chiefly of the wheelbarrow.)For months it hasn't known the taste of steel,Washed down with rusty water in a tin.But standing outdoors hungry, in the cold,Except in towns at night, is not a sin.And, anyway, its standing in the yardUnder a ruinous live apple treeHas nothing any more to do with me,Except that I remember how of oldOne summer day, all day I drove it hard,And someone mounted on it rode it hard,And he and I between us ground a blade.

I gave it the preliminary spin,And poured on water (tears it might have been);And when it almost gayly jumped and flowed,A Father-Time-like man got on and rode,Armed with a scythe and spectacles that glowed.He turned on will-power to increase the loadAnd slow me down--and I abruptly slowed,Like coming to a sudden railroad station.I changed from hand to hand in desperation.I wondered what machine of ages goneThis represented an improvement on.For all I knew it may have sharpened spearsAnd arrowheads itself. Much use for yearsHad gradually worn it an oblateSpheroid that kicked and struggled in its gait,Appearing to return me hate for hate;(But I forgive it now as easilyAs any other boyhood enemyWhose pride has failed to get him anywhere).I wondered who it was the man thought ground--The one who held the wheel back or the oneWho gave his life to keep it going round?I wondered if he really thought it fairFor him to have the say when we were done.Such were the bitter thoughts to which I turned.

Not for myself was I so much concerned.Oh no!--although, of course, I could have foundA better way to pass the afternoonThan grinding discord out of a grindstone,And beating insects at their gritty tune.Nor was I for the man so much concerned.Once when the grindstone almost jumped its bearingIt looked as if he might be badly thrownAnd wounded on his blade. So far from caring,I laughed inside, and only cranked the faster,(It ran as if it wasn't greased but glued);I'd welcome any moderate disasterThat might be calculated to postponeWhat evidently nothing could conclude.The thing that made me more and more afraidWas that we'd ground it sharp and hadn't known,And now were only wasting precious blade.And when he raised it dripping once and triedThe creepy edge of it with wary touch,And viewed it over his glasses funny-eyed,Only disinterestedly to decideIt needed a turn more, I could have criedWasn't there danger of a turn too much?Mightn't we make it worse instead of better?I was for leaving something to the whetter.What if it wasn't all it should be? I'dBe satisfied if he'd be satisfied.