"In solemn pause the forest waits
The signal to return;
Within our rotting gardens gates
The weeds of autumn burn.
Father to son we held our field
Against the siege of tares,
Knowing our weaker sons would yield
The land no longer theirs.
Knowing how wind and sun and rain
Would fling their green stampedes
Where we who harvested the grain
Lie buried under weeds.''
"The Untended Field,'' by Robert Hillyer