الشاعر جين تومر

,Boll-weevil’s coming, and the winter’s cold ,Made cotton-stalks look rusty, seasons old ,And cotton, scarce as any southern snow ,Was vanishing; the branch, so pinched and slow

,Hair–braided chestnut ,coiled like a lyncher’s rope ,Eye–fagots

Black reapers with the sound of steel on stones Are sharpening scythes. I see them place the hones ,In their hip-pockets as a thing that’s done .And start their silent swinging, one by one