This is not your poem. Good try though. Its by John Donne.
All Hallows
Even now this landscape is assembling. The hills darken. The oxen Sleep in their blue yoke, The fields having been Picked clean, the sheaves Bound evenly and piled at the roadside Among cinquefoil, as the toothed moon rises:
I'm wondering why my comment about Matins seems to have been repeated (not by myself) .
I liked the Third Stanza:
' How can you understand me,
if you can't understand your self.'
This is not your poem. Good try though. Its by John Donne.