An ode.it reads:
The cool blue of the early August sky
Where lazy clouds like bales of hay move slow
The breeze of harvest gently ripples below
Row on row of corn that passes by
And the wheels so steady, make us fly
And gather from the wind as men of old
Suggested from the chill but never told
A time to make an end to every lie
Nor does it drive the soul to question why
The flashing green and gold of time made full
The road goes on and forward does it pull?
Left but the breath of the wind to groan and sigh.