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THE BEHOLDERS Far away under us, they are mowing on the green steps Of the valley, taking long, unending swings Among the ripe wheat. It is something about them growing, Growing smaller, that makes us look up and see That what has come over them is a storm. It is a blue-black storm the shape of this valley, And includes, perhaps, in its darkness, Three men in the air Taking long, limber swings, cutting water. Swaths start to fall and, on earth, The men come closer together as they mow. Now in the last stand of wheat they bend. From above, we watch over them like gods, Our chins on our hands, Our great eyes staring, our throats dry And aching to cry down on their heads Some curse or blessing, Some word we have never known, but we feel That when the right time arrives, and more stillness, Lightning will leap From our mouths in reasonless justice As they arc their scythes more slowly, taking care Not to look up. As darkness increases there comes A dancing into each of their swings, A dancing like men in a cloud. We two are coming together Also, along the wall. No lightning yet falls from us Where their long hooks catch on the last of the sun And the color of the wheat passes upward, Drawn off like standing water Helmets 143 Into the cloud, turning green; The field becomes whiter and darker, And fire in us gathers and gathers Not to call down death to touch brightly The only metal for miles In the hands of judged, innocent men, But for our use only, who in the first sheaves of rain Sit thunderstruck,having now the power to speak With deadly intent of love. 144 ...

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