Стих маленький про England

Spades take up leaves
No better than spoons,
And bags full of leaves
Are light as balloons.I make a great noise
Of rustling all day
Like rabbit and deer
Running away.But the mountains I raise
Elude my embrace,
Flowing over my arms
And into my face.I may load and unload
Again and again
Till I fill the whole shed,
And what have I then?Next to nothing for weight,
And since they grew duller
From contact with earth,
Next to nothing for color.Next to nothing for use.
But a crop is a crop,
And whos to say where
The harvest shall stop?