generous is the midwife of my days

Fetch in what falls.
Covet fat and sugared apple.
Strike the fair haired bag of wheat
paling beside the cloves.

Fetch it in the morn
to haul it hard till noon:
rut-eyed and hummock humped,
round bounty at the spine.

For those whose birth
is signaled by that sounding mark:
any a gall-shod beast
and burst-lit seed extending.