Yellow (the) flowers (that) dot the land,
and wet the ground on which I stand;
with gun at side I had not planned
for quiet sky and none in hand.
In sheets it fell across the field,
the wind against the tin it reeled;
beneath the barn and under heeled,
salvation in our case concealed...
the rye and corn and yeast of strain.
And in my warmth I did complain;
then she, without a hint disdain
said "Love, the dove don't fly in rain."