I stand before the shallow field
And whisper to the dawn
And see the sunlight burst to life
Before the rabid storm
The squalling winter’s day precludes
The swallow form her nest
And drowns the harvest yet to yield
And wakens moonlight’s rest
It ought not be so (or one might think) –
It ought be time to reap
When silent whisper heard aloud
And hunger’s gone to sleep
What of a life where yonder breaks –
(The window opened wide)
That may foretell the casting spell
And push rejoice aside
Then stoicism comes to pass
And brings hope to the field
As brown as Hell – be green again
Inviting greatest yield
sensualism 