What things for dream there are when spectre-like, <br />Moving among tall haycocks lightly piled, <br />I enter alone upon the stubble field, <br />From which the laborers' voices late have died, <br />And in the antiphony of afterglow <br />And rising full moon, sit me down <br />Upon the full moon's side of the first haycock <br />And lose myself amid so many alike. <br />I dream upon the opposing lights of the hour, <br />Preventing shadow until the moon prevail; <br />I dream upon the night-hawks peopling heaven, <br />Each circling each with vague unearthly cry, <br />Or plunging headlong with fierce twang afar; <br />And on the bat's mute antics, who would seem <br />Dimly to have made out my secret place, <br />Only to lose it when he pirouettes, <br />And seek it endlessly with purblind haste; <br />On the last swallow's sweep; and on the rasp <br />In the abyss of odor and rustle at my back, <br />That, silenced by my advent, finds once more, <br />After an interval, his instrument, <br />And tries once-twice-and thrice if I be there; <br />And on the worn book of old-golden song <br />I brought not here to read, it seems, but hold <br />And freshen in this air of withering sweetness; <br />But on the memory of one absent most, <br />For whom these lines when they shall greet her eye.<br /><br />Robert Frost<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/waiting-afield-at-dusk/
