Deserted Field

How, in this field, the urgent day will slacken
Is known to a few secret things that turn
Silently from the wood and the cold bracken
To this expanse of goldenrod and fern.
There is no wind, where nothing will receive it:
The grasses have been tempered, stiffly spun.
Time, if it found this place, must always leave it
Immemorablc and stupefied with sun.
It must be long since the last crooked furrow
Was plotted here; but nothing will testify.
The disingenuous folk of the deep burrow
Might hold the clue, but something in this sky
Renders them innocent, forever under
A summer spell. Nothing they see is strange —
They think, hearing the partridge’s slow thunder:
It has always been like this; it will never change.
EDWARD WEISMILLER