When the Rye Flowers

Mist is distilled from the fields of rye. In earth, in the sky Summer’s fulfilled.

To grasshoppers’ bowing I bend my ear: the tale I hear wherever I’m going.

In case the uncaring might just be I the swallows’ cry has quickened my hearing.

From flowering clover the scent is spread; in strawb’ries red the tale is told over.

But summer confessed that which my heart had by now imparted to me in my breast:

this day is departing the ev’ning’s dispelled; each step is compelled

to the Autumn starting.

The rye without ear is unripe to reap; our deeds will not keep for another year.