LYRIC night of the lingering Indian Summer, Shadowy fields that are scentless but full of singing, Never a bird, but the passionless chant of insects, Ceaseless, insistent. The grasshopper's horn, and far off, high in the maples The wheel of a locust leisurely grinding the silence, Under a moon waning and worn and broken, Tired with summer. Let me remember you, voices of little insects, Weeds in the moonlight, fields that are tangled with asters, Let me remember you, soon will the winter be on us, Snow-hushed and heartless. Over my soul murmur your mute benediction While I gaze, oh fields that rest after harvest, As those who part look long in the eyes they lean to, Lest they forget them. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CONTRA MORTEM: THE GREAT DEATH by HAYDEN CARRUTH THE BIRTH OF VENUS by HAYDEN CARRUTH THE SMALLISH SON by HAYDEN CARRUTH OUR CAMP; IN THE AUTUMN WOODS by ROBERT FROST POETS ARE BORN NOT MADE by ROBERT FROST YOU KNOW WHAT PEOPLE SAY by JAMES GALVIN |