sheaves
That stiffly and starkly keep gnard in the field,
A desolate rank without weapon or shield.
And the fragrance of death like a delicate musk
Floats up from the field through the crispness of
dusk;
Yet out from the kitchen, more savory far,
Drifts the fragrance of pickles compounded by
ma.
The autumn sweeps past like a dame to a ball,