BAIT Lamps dawdle in the field at midnight. Three men follow their nose in the grass, The lamp's beam their prow and compass. The bucket's handle better not clatter now: Silence and curious light gather bait. Nab him, but wait For the first shrinking, tacky on the thumb. Let him resettle backwards in his tunnel. Then draw steady and he'll come. Among the millions whorling their mud coronas Under dewlapped leaf and bowed blades A few are bound to be rustled in these night raids, Innocent ventilators of the ground Making the globe a perfect fit, A few are bound to be cheated of it When lamps dawdle in the field at midnight, When fishers need a garland for the bay And have him, where he needs to come, out of the clay. -- Seamus Heaney