In the leaf-mold moon when the pumpkins go to town,
They are burning the cornfields up, and the wind-warped smoke
Trails mountain-blue in the fields and the stubborn brown.
Hills go quietly dark. Now the singing is done
In the harvesters’ throats. As the dense grass catches fire,
I think of the fuel I have been to a fiercer flame —
In the darkness I shrink and yet with an old desire . . .