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.