Waiting Afield at Dusk by Robert Frost — Read

What things for dream there are when spectre-like, / Moving among tall haycocks lightly piled, / I enter alone upon the stubble field, / From which the laborers' voices late have died, / And in the antiphony of afterglow / And rising full moon, sit me down / Upon the full moon's side of the first haycock / And lose myself amid so many alike.

I dream upon the opposing lights of the hour, / Preventing shadow until the moon prevail; / I dream upon the night-hawks peopling heaven, / Each circling each with vague unearthly cry, / Or plunging headlong with fierce twang afar; / And on the bat's mute antics, who would seem / Dimly to have made out my secret place, / Only to lose it when he pirouettes, / And seek it endlessly with purblind haste; / On the last swallow's sweep; and on the rasp / In the abyss of odor and rustle at my back, / That, silenced by my advent, finds once more, / After an interval, his instrument, / And tries once-twice-and thrice if I be there; / And on the worn book of old-golden song / I brought not here to read, it seems, but hold / And freshen in this air of withering sweetness; / But on the memory of one absent most, / For whom these lines when they shall greet her eye.