Lines in Pleasant Places :: :: University of Virginia Library

In the old-time summer day,
Cheerily we took our way
To the meadows, where we knew
Ripe and luscious strawberries grew,
Nodding on their bending stems
With the glow of beryl gems.
Bobolink, with angry tone,
Claimed the berries as his own,
While the Robin, perching near,
Piped his protest, sharp and clear,
Telling us, in accents plain,
We infringed on his domain!

Then how sweet the breezes were,
Blowing through our unkempt hair!
And the breath of clover bloom
Lent its burden of perfume,
And the hum of busy bees
Swelled the choral symphonies,
As we through the meadows went,
On our strawberries intent.

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Such companionship we knew,
In that day of pleasure, too!
No such friends in later days
As those partners in our plays.
True, unselfish, earnest, free,
A united band were we.
We were many, bound as one,
In the unity of fun.

The world has drawn us, since, apart,
And chilled the ardor of the heart;
Yet one tie asserts its claim:
Strawberries we love the same,
As we picked them ripe and red,
In the merry days long fled.

Still, when grown to thoughtful men,
Strawberries sought we e'en as then;
But another name they bore
Than the berries plucked of yore.
Some assumed the form of Place,
Leading on a weary chase,
O'er a rough and tortuous way,
Seeking strawberries that “pay.”
Sacrificing honor's trust,
Crawling humbly in the dust,
Fawning, lying, crowding, hating,
E'en for dead men's shoes awaiting!
For such strawberries many yearned—
Few with brimming pails returned.

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Some with fierce Ambition fraught,
Fame's bright berries anxious sought,
Roaming fields whose ample scope,
Yielded to their wish and hope,
Till the fruit they sought was gained,
But the basket full obtained
Gave not the glow of heartfelt joy
That crowned the seeking of the boy.

Others Money, Money, craved—
Every peril for it braved;
Giving for the fruitage, Pelf,
All the betterness of self.
Strawberries their constant cry,
Seeking them with eager eye;
But, though granted all their wish,
They were verjuice in the dish.
Such for me exert no power—
'Tis a fruit that's far too sour.

Love, a strawberry very sweet,
Lured our youthful hearts and feet,
Seen in eyes and red lips, rare,
Rich as Hovey's Seedlings are,
And in rapturous look or kiss,
We had baskets full of bliss!
Sweet the breath of clover blooms,
Sweet the myriad perfumes
That fill the summer's sunny hours,
Redolent with buds and flowers;
Sweet the song of bird or bee,

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Or the forest melody,
As, amid the tree-tops high,
Breezes through the branches sigh;
Sweet the dashing of the stream,
Flowing like a joyous dream,
Cheering the surrounding scene
With an added wealth of green;
But, of all the sweets I know,
None a rivalry can show
With the love of Youth's bright year,
Gladdening the atmosphere—
Measuring the passing time
By heart-throbs pulsing into rhyme,
While the glow of stars and suns
Into life's enactment runs,
Making earth all saccharine
—Strawberries of sort divine;
O'er all other sorts supreme—
Sugar needing not, nor cream!

Many were the kinds thus sought
With diverse successes fraught;
Many baskets running o'er,
Many with but meagre store.
Some, phantoms followed, day by day,
Frittering their time away—
Seeking Fashion, Pleasure, Ease,
Plucking worldly vanities,
Ending with the piteous dole,
Blank vacuity of soul!

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Happy those who early knew
Where the Wisdom berries grew!
Grand the fruitage thus to gain,
Worth all effort to obtain;
Strawberries, for which sacrifice
And earnest striving are the price.

And we still our strawberries seek,
By the dint of wit or cheek;
Young and old their bent pursue,
To the olden impulse true,
Striving strawberries to possess,
With like chances of success.
May Heaven its kindness manifest,
And lead us all to choose the best.