EARS OF GRAIN

Yes, you and I were close in days gone by,
We from the faithless intimacy fled;
In buckwheat fields we rose like ears held high,
And so, mere weed, escaped the scythe instead.

The sunlight seared us to the golden bone,
Yet, ripening, we never brimmed with weight;
Partakers of an unripe beauty’s tone,
With autumn winds we parted—of our fate.

Thus into different wreaths our stalks were drawn,
And no one sang of ears that had to sever;
What never turned to bread escapes the mould for ever,
But wreath-made ears—you cannot toss at dawn.