Robert Frost - The Grindstone [tekst, tłumaczenie i interpretacja piosenki]

Having a wheel and four legs of its own
Has never availed the cumbersome grindstone
To get it anywhere that I can see
These hands have helped it go, and even race;
Not all the motion, though, they ever lent
Not all the miles it may have thought it went
Have got it one step from the starting place
It stands beside the same old apple tree
The shadow of the apple tree is thin
Upon it now; its feet are fast in snow
All other farm machinery's gone in
And some of it on no more legs and wheel
Than the grindstone can boast to stand or go
(I'm thinking chiefly of the wheelbarrow.)
For months it hasn't known the taste of steel
Washed down with rusty water in a tin
But standing outdoors hungry, in the cold
Except in towns at night, is not a sin
And, anyway, its standing in the yard
Under a ruinous live apple tree
Has nothing any more to do with me
Except that I remember how of old
One summer day, all day I drove it hard
And someone mounted on it rode it hard
And he and I between us ground a blade

I gave it the preliminary spin
And poured on water (tears it might have been);
And when it almost gaily jumped and flowed
A Father-Time-like man got on and rode
Armed with a scythe and spectacles that glowed
He turned on willpower to increase the load
And slow me down - and I abruptly slowed
Like coming to a sudden railroad station
I changed from hand to hand in desperation
I wondered if machines of ages gone
This represented an improvement on
For all I know it may have sharpened spears
And arrowheads itself. Much use for years
Had gradually worn it an oblate
Spheroid that kicked and struggled in its gait
Appearing to return me hate for hate
(But I forgive it now as easily
As any other boyhood enemy
Whose pride has failed to get him anywhere)
I wondered who it was the man thought ground -
The one who held the wheel back or one
Who gave his life to keep it going round?
I wondered if he really thought it fair
For him to have the say when we were done
Such were the bitter thoughts to which I turned

Not for myself was I so much concerned
Oh no! - although, of course, I could have found
A better way to pass the afternoon
Than grinding discord out of a grindstone
And beating insects at their gritty tune
Nor was I for the man so much concerned
Once when the grindstone almost jumped its bearing
It looked as if he might be badly thrown
And wounded on his blade. So far from caring
I laughed inside, and only cranked the faster
(It ran as if it wasn't greased but glued);
I'd welcome any moderate disaster
That might be calculated to postpone
What evidently nothing could conclude
The thing that made me more and more afraid
Was that we'd ground it sharp and hadn't known
And now were only wasting precious blade
And when he rasied it dripping once and tried
The creepy edge of it with wary touch
And viewed it over his glasses funny-eyed
Only disinterestedly to decide
It needed a turn more, I could have cried
Wasn't there danger of a turn too much?
Mightn't we make it worse instead of better?
I was for leaving something to the whetter
What if it wasn't all it should be? I'd
Be satisfied if he'd be satisfied