The Sheaves A Poem by Edwin Arlington Robinson www.poetrynook.com Where long the shadows of the wind had rolled, Green wheat was yielding to the change assigned; And as by some vast magic undivined The world was turning slowly into gold. Like nothing that was ever bought or sold It waited there, the body and the mind; And with a mighty meaning of a kind That tells the more the more it is not told. So in a land where all days are not fair, Fair days went on till on another day A thousand golden sheaves were lying there, Shining and still, but not for long to stay— As if a thousand girls with golden hair Might rise from where they slept and go away. farmingseasonschangemelancholy
The navigation is our property RENE: Tell me what we have. Of value. GAEL: Whatever we've bought in cargo so far. I don't know what you want me— RENE: Anyone can buy goods. What do we really have? What do we sell? GAEL (realizing): The route. RENE: Yes. The navigation is our property. To copy a man's route is to steal it. Into the system of flight navigationownership