 | A Selection from Unpublished Poems |  |
7
FLOWERS A-FIELD.
In hay-fields where the hedge-boughs cope
The sunny hedge-bank's flow'ry slope,
Out where the prickly wildrose blows,
Above the bloomy bramble-bows,
Some maiden cries “The briars prick
My fingers to the very quick;
Come pull me down a wild rose, do,
For I can't cope with it like you!”
The sunny hedge-bank's flow'ry slope,
Out where the prickly wildrose blows,
Above the bloomy bramble-bows,
Some maiden cries “The briars prick
My fingers to the very quick;
Come pull me down a wild rose, do,
For I can't cope with it like you!”
And out in meadows, where the hay,
Now nearly dry, is rustling gray,
Before the touch of rake or prongs,
And under women's merry songs;
Then there, as I by chance come by,
The laughing girls, I hear them cry,
“Come pull me down a woodbine, do,
For I can't reach it there. Can you?”
Now nearly dry, is rustling gray,
Before the touch of rake or prongs,
And under women's merry songs;
Then there, as I by chance come by,
The laughing girls, I hear them cry,
“Come pull me down a woodbine, do,
For I can't reach it there. Can you?”
And down beside the river's brim,
Where whirling waters softly swim—
Where we can see the bulrush nod
Its club upon its slender rod;
Then there, as merry girls behold
The water-lily's flow'r of gold,
They cry, “Oh! rake me out one, do,
For I can't reach it in. Can you?”
Where whirling waters softly swim—
Where we can see the bulrush nod
Its club upon its slender rod;
Then there, as merry girls behold
The water-lily's flow'r of gold,
They cry, “Oh! rake me out one, do,
For I can't reach it in. Can you?”
| A Selection from Unpublished Poems | |