30
what's o'clock
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."
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."
