They lie who say the stalks of corn are sleeping-
Their midsummer greenness more than
memories
In the wild euphoria of human weeping.

I groped out there in darkness on my knees
Prayerfully clawing kernels in the earth;
In the rites of spring, at least, there is no
dying-
But only sprigs of green and
Graceful golden tassels in the sun
of Spring
Exploding toward some unseen stat and
Birth.

But silence in a deluge; in a wave!
The corn is ashen, is always dying.
No resurrected Lazarus come from the grave.
But only ritual blood and deathless sighing.

O! Will you copulate with Spring?
The corn! Remember?
The corn is dead;

...and the heart is stunned.