The Old Scarecrow

At the turn of the seasons with things that engender— All at a gaze, spread tall above hills— There peeks unwound—by retribution, their slander— Upon the brisk and solemn frocks of bare fields.

Watching like a dead truth at heart unaglazed— For I must not mirror their deeds no longer;— While the winds pass with smiles through my gazes brayed— And shadows dance in my love for the longer!

Where the faces aloft that called and caught fair, Shall blend with the flies and call back each throng; For I was their guardian once when winds breathed when— The breathing held wild where my daemons were strong; The sundown has come, and still my own grace— Shall spin from the wind that has hated this place.

• John Masefield