Jake Diefer, the barrel-chested Pennsylvanian, Marched toward Getty’s town past orderly fences, Thinking of harvest. The boy was growing up strong And the corn-haired woman was smart at managing things But it was a shame what you had to pay hired men now Though they’d had good crops last year and good prices too. The crops looked pretty this summer. He stared at the long Gold of the wheat reflectively, weighing it all, Turning it into money and cows and taxes, A new horse-reaper, some first-class paint for the barn, Maybe a dress for the woman. His thoughts were few, But this one tasted rough and good in his mouth Like a spear of rough, raw grain. He crunched at it now. —And yet, that wasn’t all, the paint and the cash, They were the wheat but the wheat was⁠—he didn’t know⁠— But it made you feel good to see some good wheat again And see it grown up proper. He wasn’t a man