Hay for the Horses
He had driven half the night
From far down San Joaquin
Through Mariposa, up the
Dangerous Mountain roads,
And pulled in at eight a.m.
With his big truckload of hay
behind the barn.
With winch and ropes and hooks
We stacked the bales up clean
To splintery redwood rafters
High in the dark, flecks of alfalfa
Whirling through shingle-cracks of light,
Itch of haydust in the
sweaty shirt and shoes.
At lunchtime under Black oak
Out in the hot corral,
---The old mare nosing lunchpails,
Grasshoppers crackling in the weeds---
"I'm sixty-eight" he said,
"I first bucked hay when I was seventeen.
I thought, that day I started,
I sure would hate to do this all my life.
And dammit, that's just what
I've gone and done."
Gary Snyder's Other Poems
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (Hay for the Horses by Gary Snyder )
Poem of the Day
- If You Forget Me, Pablo Neruda
- Still I Rise, Maya Angelou
- Nothing Gold Can Stay, Robert Frost
- Annabel Lee, Edgar Allan Poe
- The Road Not Taken, Robert Frost
- Dreams, Langston Hughes
- Fire and Ice, Robert Frost
- I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings, Maya Angelou
- No Man Is An Island, John Donne
- Phenomenal Woman, Maya Angelou
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)