 | Three Hundred Sonnets |  |
129
HOP-PICKING.
A thyrsus grove it seem'd, of standing spearsWildly festoon'd with gadding wreaths of green;
Yet, not as if old Bacchus and his peers
In tipsy rout and frolic there had been
To hurl them up on end with all their sheen,—
But orderly set forth in warrior rank,
Giants array'd, with fighting-room at flank,
Caparison'd, and heavily plumed a-top
With clustering bells:—and, are these Dryad bands,
Or groups of Oreades, so blythely seen
To gather in with songs that golden crop,
Crushing its fragrance in their sportive hands?
No! dreamer:—let Arcadian fancies drop;
These are but hop-pickers,—and that the Hop.
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