Field Left Fallow

The hand that trenched the April plow
And flailed the honey-running stalk
Knows quieter employment now
And leaves the meadow to the hawk;
While beauty, with summer at her breast,
The brown swift girl whom we needed most,
Sleeps like a lover sick for rest
In grass that blossoms with her ghost;

While north and south the hollows fill
With shadow solid as a tower,
And silence gathers on a hill,
And darkness opens like a flower;
While tenuous between the sheaves
The shadows of the great trees blow,
Done with the letting-down of leaves,
Done with the taking-on of snow.