The Coming Torrent

A crimson rose, such shallow roots,
Does dwell among the soybean shoots.
And whilst the reapers do not know,
The Farmer does with purpose sow—

As if to beautify His crop
And cause his men to pause, to stop
And stand befuddled in its range,
O’er something, though alluring, strange.

Yet planted where it is, it blooms,
In contrast to the soybeans’ dooms;
A flower, lone and brilliant red,
To no one but its Planter wed.

A threat’ning sky the labor wrecks;
Mosquitoes nip at workers’ necks.
Such humid air does dew their flesh,
And coming rain, the rose refresh!