Ruth

SHE stood breast-high amid the corn,

Clasped 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 ripened;—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 veiled a light

That had else been all too bright.

And her hat with shaded brim,

Made her tressy forehead dim—

Thus she stood among the stooks,

Praising God with sweetest looks.

Sure, I said, Heaven did not mean

Where I reap thou shouldst but glean;

Lay thy sheaf adown and come

Share my harvest and my home.