The Cornfield

In the late light, where blue shadows lap, The golden tall stalks sway gently, in ease; The row on row, close in eager nap, Graze the horizon edge of the late autumn breeze.

Hear how the whispers ride the soft earth, Carving paths for the clouds in folded dreams; Drawn forth from the mouths of a calm hearth, Like echoes that breathe through the waiting seams.

So still and yet beckoning from afar, Are the slumbers of night and the dusk that grow, And the quiet retribution of every star, In the lull of the cornfield’s golden flow.

• John Crowe Ransom