This is the place. The autumn field is bare,

The row lies half-cut all the afternoon,

The birds are hiding in the woods, the air

Dreams fitfully outworn with waiting. Soon

Out of the russet woods in amber mail

Heroes come walking through the yellow sheaves,

Walk on and meet. And then a silent gale

Scatters them on the field like autumn leaves.

Yet not a feathered stalk has stirred, and all

Is still again, but for the birds that call

On every warrior’s head and breast and shield.

Sweet cries and horror on the field.

One field. I look again and there are three:

One where the heroes fell to rest,

One where birds make of iron limbs a tree,

Helms for a nest,

And one where grain stands up like armies drest.