Good wheat I sowed in the field,
And labored under the sun;
But after the toil was done
My senses by sleep were sealed,
In the long, long wait for the yield.
Unburdened by honest cares,
An enemy, ever awake
His uncaused hate to slake,
Scattered his bag of tares
On the earth late turned by the shares.
The innocent, brown, ploughed earth,
Mellowed by rain and sun,
Knew not of the ill deed done,
But nourished the seeds to birth
That in harvest-time make dearth.
