November Burning

Meadows, the harvest done, the kernelled corn

Filched for the granaries, are given to flame,

To flame that fashions of dry useless things

Brief flowers of no name.

But in November the gold broken stubble,

Its sap yet lingering, life waking still,

Shall blossom in no fire; smoke is harvest

Of an autumn hill.

Let be, the bleak long winter, and the field

Guard preciously its stubble; let no shower

Of April mildness stir its roots to life,

Let no stalk come to flower.

Come spring, set torch to tinder, and the flame

Not hooded now, not clogged with happiness,

Lift clean its strong bright limbs; let the dead find

Life's apotheosis.