Futile Harvest [a poem].

Futile Harvest.

Mortals came in
solitary tune,
To grace vain harvest in
glades of due,

What nest of shame
would your reapers frame?
Battered basket,bags of bad-seed brace!

Homeward all your perfection,
Your progress,hills of reflection
Patching you gracious peasants
Till your harvest is brought to ages.