TO FERNANDO DE SORIA

I saw them break apart these level fields,
and grow, I saw, and break in a few months
this yesterday, Sorino, ruddy grain,
scant handsfull now of tassles hoar and worn.

These I saw that now are straw so proud,
their leaves unfolding so that you might see
the emerald bested on their underside,
the pearls within their bundles in the morn.

Once sprouted, grew, then seed and kernels formed
what you see with the sickle now brought down,
what then so much like something else did seem.

What are we, then, what are we? Counterpart
of this: ripe grain, Sorino, later crop;
and how many without seed have been gleaned!