The sunflower discs are pitch with seed
looking downward, haggard with drooping
wilted leaves, their flaming halos mouldering
dun like embers spent; the rod stems bent,
faltering from their straight-raised places.
So fructifying, given over to giving
what you had not thought of ever giving;
under yoke sweeter than the autumn air,
and to have the lightest birds alighting,
to feed from your stricken face: would you dare
account the world's pleasures to compare?