Through the rye

Flying hair, robes asunder,
Beads of sweat on her lips;
Runs and runs through the fields of rye
With hopes eternal of eternal bliss.
On and on she goes endlessly
But doubts of sate linger on.
The gentle raven, blackest of all,
Caws to her from the highest stall.
“I view the fields wide and clear
And trust me for I see in rife,
I see no rye on the path you step
That serves you through the life!
O tender lass you look inside,
Those barren fields of yours are lush.
Someone stole into your heart
And stealthily planted ample rye.”