​Growing tall
scattered among wolfsbane
betwixt nettle
    and loathsome vervain
 
the Wheat waited.
Feeling the early frost they knew
the Harvest followed morning
dew: soon the scouring of weeds
​and diseased grain
     ―everything wicked and profane 

would wither beneath a silvery sun
uprooting each and every one.

And the Wheat waited.
Until Harvest day arrived at last
and they beheld the troublesome chaff
float away on a late summer's breeze
only to be plucked by birds
who lay concealed 
     among the orchard trees.

The field was theirs at last
(naught but Wheat remained)
and they rejoiced beneath
the rustling of wings
awaiting their reward
foreordained
     now the sifting had occurred.

Harvest time was come
and the Wheat danced
in the evening light
glad they had not succumbed like chaff
     when clouds gathered overhead.

Puzzlement filled their ranks
as fire filled the field with flame.
How could this be─
     the Tares had all fled!

The Lord to them explained:
Ye who knew the ease of wealth
amid your worldly cares;
     what reason had ye
     to believe
​     ye were not
     the Tares?