So come to the planting ground, come,
come to the fields of abundance,
the sheaves that I let fall of purpose,
Come that the bright constant grasses of perennial
corn should mix its pikes and tassels,
that a husk should burst with bountiful rows.
Come to the threshing floor, come,
come that the corn which we winnow and eat
be made sweet and productive.
Come that I might spread my skirt over you,
that an August afternoon of cut grasses,
wildflowers, pines and oaks might know clouds
the white of seraphim, generous and wise.
Come to the many greens of the far hills
shifted in rippling shadow and exchange
beneath a sun coupling with those clouds,
that a full moon buffeted in a night
of quicksilver blue should stand
a sentinel of grace and fear.
And to corn that names the fruit of all
edible grasses, the inheritance we redeem,
bring your yellow, still, silent, dawn.
This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 13 Number 4, on page 36
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