IN WAR TIME
For the blithe children, gleaning behind
The women, marvellous treasures find.
4
From the workers a maiden parts:
The baskets at her waistband shine
With berries that look like bleeding hearts
Of a hundred lovers at her shrine;
No Eastern girl were girdled so well
With silken belt and silver bell.
Her slender form is tall and strong;
Her voice is the sweetest in the song;
Her brown hair, fit to wear a crown,
Loose from its bonnet ripples down.
Toward the crates, that lie in the shade
Of the chestnut copse at the edge of the glade,
She moves from her mates, through happy rows
Of the children loving her as she goes.
Alice, our Alice! one and all,
Striving to stay her footsteps, call
(For children with skilful choice dispense
The largesse of their innocence);
But on, with a sister's smile, she moves
Into the darkness of the groves,
And deftly, daintily, one by one,
Shelters her baskets from the sun,
Under the network, fresh and cool,
Of lily-leaves from the crystal pool.
5
Turning her violet eyes, their rays
Glistened full in the young man's gaze;
And each at each, for a moment's space,
Looked with a diffident surprise.
"Heaven!" thought Hugh, "what artless grace
That laborer's daughter glorifies!
I never saw a fairer face,
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