RUTH.
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 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 vail’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.
Thomas Hood.