I see a field, an upland field of corn
Whose tawny tresses wave and whisper still
Within my heart after so many years:
I hear a lad’s shrill whistling in the morn,
And children’s chatter as they climb the hill,
The farmer’s voice the binder’s rattling gears:
I feel again the sun, for us new-born,
An infant ruddy that soon climbs until
He is mature, and throws his burning spears
Like cinder sparks. Thus on my soul are worn
Time’s medals bright; but chief amongst them all,
A night of scented gold and purple deep.
A harvest moon that rides above men’s sleep,
And decades after yet exerts its thrall !
Weekly Times 25.9.60