Cutting the Corn
The morning glows on marching rows
Of weary, tattered corn;
The landscape looms with draggled plumes
And garments frayed and torn.
The day of doom is rising high
When all the cornfield soldiers die.
Scream, ravens, scream, the summer dream
Shall crumble in the breeze;
Stare, red-eyed day, with sickly ray,
Above the dogwood trees.
The cringing nymphs are terror dumb,
The harvest of the corn has come.
Trail tangled silken sheen no more;
Blue velvet blossoms bleed and die;
For, crashing through your bosom's core,
The doom shall smite you, hip and thigh.
A, tear or two of sweetened dew
The mourning year shall weep for you.
The farm boy stands with eager hands,
That clasp the bluish blade;
Then right and left the stacks are cleft,
And now a wigwam's made.
And like an Indian village rise
The yellow tents before our eyes.
___C. L. Edson