I am walking beneath a high chapel canopy,
Next to Queen Anne’s lace,
Whose white crown bends to the coming north wind.
Sunset bestows a gilded light on ordered rows of corn,
Holding their offering close
Till the ripe day these silken fronds part
and spill their gold on the altar.
And I am in procession toward this same mystery,
With crickets chirping a kind of gospel,
Low and sweet in the hidden leaves.