His eyes are glazed,
His soul is numb.

As though in sleep,
With footsteps slow,
He creeps to where
The rye doth grow.

Upon his field
He gazes long, 150
He stands and sings
A voiceless song:

"Grow ripe, grow ripe,
O Mother rye,
I fostered thee,
Thy lord am I.

"Yield me a loaf
Of monstrous girth,
A cake as vast
As Mother-Earth. 160

"I'll eat the whole--
No crumb I'll spare;
With wife, with child,
I will not share."

"Eh, brothers, I'm hungry!"
A voice exclaims feebly.