The cornstalks stand in their brown lines
Rustling hoarsely in the cool autumn breeze
The sun beams warmly from a cloudless blue
And the earth greedily sponges up the last drops of gold.
Nature won’t tell us; it’s her secret
But the traitor birds, fleeing an enemy they have never met
Warn that an unconquerable foe is approaching
And the friendly sun will soon become a cold spectator
A pale eye in a pale-complexioned sky.
And the cornstalks still stand in their thin brown lines
Knowing as their dry leaves rattle, sabre-like, against their knees,
That there will be no quarter shown, no mercy given
When the frost-daggers appear, pointed unerringly at their hearts.
But still they stand,
Guarding their dry yellow hoard
Until the gentle deer
Silently steal it away.