Classic Poem

Now that the twilight slants the curled edges of wheat
And the bats go about amazed with dusk,
And there is the slurring sound of furry feet
Where wheat ear chafes wheat ear, husk rubs husk —
And the noise of them is sweet;

Now that wind shadow moves in a devious arc
Through fluttered blue flags, willow colonies;
And the nest-hovering little meadow lark
Is hushed with numerous anxieties;
And there is bronze rumor of bees —

Slowly, with eyes withdrawn and intricate,
Sleep of the moon-soft eyes, advancing slow,
Sleep, interceding and compassionate,
Sway the mother lark's eyelids to forego
Vigil: touch her so.