Ruth

Thomas Hood (1799–1845)

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 shady brim,

Made her tressy forehead dim;—

Thus she stood amid 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.