Madeline Yale Wynne

LIKE nets of brown, by fisher folk

Spread out to dry in wind and sun,

While in the harbor idly wait

The boats for schools of fish to run:

So lie the ripened cotton fields

Along the slopes. The sun has browned

And curled their leaves; the rows stretch out

Enlaced with knots along the ground.

Above the rough red field of earth

Soft flecks of white droop from the bolls.

Far off the groups of pickers loom

Like burdened, disembodied souls—

Detached but not released, who haunt

The fields and hover near the soil:

Gray gleaners in the weary rows,

Entangled in an endless toil.