BY LOREN C. EISELEY
If I have once forgotten on this field
The long light of the dusk, or far away
The sheep on tawny grass, how stones will yield
Small bitter puffballs, or a cricket stay
To wring wry tunes from emptiness and dearth,
Let me remember; let me hold them now
Close to the heart--while I upon the earth
Am the stone field and pain the heavy plow.
Not in wide measures is the harvest culled,
Not by disaster, nor by cutting hail
Is the loss seen, the grief in somewise dulled--
Being done at last. Ours is a different scale--
Leaving September stars and a little smoke
And memory tight as a lichen to an oak.