What's O'Clock/One Jericho

by Amy Lowell

ONCE JERICHO

Walking in the woods one day,
I came across a great river of rye
Sweeping up between tall pine-trees.
The grey-green heads of the rye
Jostled and flaunted
And filled all the passage with a tossing
Of bright-bearded ears,
It was very fine,
Marching and bending
Under the smooth, wide undulation of the upper branches of pines.

"Yi! Yi!' cried the little yellow cinquefoil.
"What is this bearded army which marches upon us?"
And the loosestrife called out that somebody was treading on its toes.
But the rye never heeded.
"Bread! Bread!" it shouted, and wagged its golden beards.
"Bread conquering the forest."
I stood with the little cinquefoil
Crushed back against a bush of sheep's laurel.
"T am sorry if I crowd you," said I.
"But the rye is marching
And the green and yellow banners blind me,
Also the clamour of the great trumpets
Is confusing."
"But you are trampling me down," wailed the loosestrife.
"Alas! Even so.
Yet do not blame me,
For I too have scarcely room to stand."
Then a gust of wind ran upon the tall rye,
And it flung up its glittering helmets and shouted
"Bread!" again and again,
And the hubbub of it rolled superbly under the balancing pines.

"Three times the trumpets," thought I,
And I picked the cinquefoil.
"Why not on my writing-table," I said, caressing its petals with my finger.
And that, I take it, is the end of the story.