she stood breast high amid the corn
clasp’d by the golden light of morn,
like the sweetheart of the sun,
who many a glowing kiss had won.
on her cheek an autumn flush,
deeply ripen’d; — such a blush
in the midst of brown was born,
like red poppies grown with corn.
round her eyes her tresses fell,
which were blackest none could tell,
but long lashes veil’d a light,
that had else been all too bright.
and her hat, with shady brim,
made her tressy forehead dim; —
thus she stood amid the stooks,
praising god with sweetest looks:—
sure, i said, heav’n did not mean,
where i reap thou shouldst but glean,
lay thy sheaf adown and come,
share my harvest and my home.