Classic Poem

Walking in the woods one day,
I came across a great river of rye
Sweeping up between tall pine-trees.
The grey-green heads of the rye
Jostled and flaunted
And filled all the passage with a tossing
Of bright-bearded ears,
It was very fine,
Marching and bending
Under the smooth, wide undulation of the upper branches of pines.

" Yi! Yi! " cried the little yellow cinquefoil.
" What is this bearded army which marches upon us? "
And the loosestrife called out that somebody was treading on its toes.
But the rye never heeded.
" Bread! Bread! " it shouted, and wagged its golden beards.
" Bread conquering the forest. "
I stood with the little cinquefoil

Crushed back against a bush of sheep's laurel.
" I am sorry if I crowd you, " said I.
" But the rye is marching
And the green and yellow banners blind me,
Also the clamour of the great trumpets
Is confusing. "
" But you are trampling me down, " wailed the loosestrife.
" Alas! Even so.
Yet do not blame me,
For I too have scarcely room to stand. "

Then a gust of wind ran upon the tall rye,
And it flung up its glittering helmets and shouted " Bread! " again and again,
And the hubbub of it rolled superbly under the balancing pines.

" Three times the trumpets, " thought I,
And I picked the cinquefoil.
" Why not on my writing-table, " I said, caressing its petals with my finger.
And that, I take it, is the end of the story.