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Title: Hop Picking
Author: Edith Nesbit [
More Titles by Nesbit]
Ah me, how pleasant to go down
From the forlorn and faded town
To Kentish wood and fold and lane,
And breathe God's blessed air again;
Where glorious yellow corn-fields blaze
And nuts hang over woodland ways.
To pick the sweet keen-scented hops,
(See from each pole a dream-wreath drops)
To toil all day in pure clear air,
Laughter and sunshine everywhere--
With reddening woods and sweet wet soil
And well-earned rest and honest toil.
Where do we fly, under deep dark sky?
Over the moors we go,
Over the pool where quiet and cool
Bulrush and sedges grow--
And what was the loveliest thing we met?
Ah--we forget!
We remember though all the firelit glow
Of a great hearth's gleam and glare,
And we looked for a space at each happy face
And the love that was written there.
And that, of all we have looked on yet--
We least forget!
Oh what a day! all yellow and gray,
And so dark, so dreary, so foggy and thick,
That if I should meet
In the street
My sweet--
I might pass her by!
Risk that? Not I!
Take me home out of danger then! Quick, feet, quick.
Not Summer's crown of scent the red rose weaves
Nor hawthorn blossom over bloom-strewn grass,
Nor violet's whisper when the children pass,
Nor lilac perfume in the soft May eves,
Nor new-mown hay, crisp scent of yellow sheaves,
Nor any scent that Spring-time can amass
And Summer squander, such a magic has
As scent of fresh wet earth and fallen leaves.
For sometimes lovers in November days,
When earth is grieving for the vanished sun,
Have trod dead leaves in chill and wintry ways,
And kissed and dreamed eternal Summer won;
Look back, look back! through memories' deepening haze,
See--two who dreamed that dream, and you were one.
[The end]
Edith Nesbit's poem: Hop Picking
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