| Where are you going, children dear? Where the lane winds deep and the stream runs clear— There are plenty of beautiful ways to go— But only one way that two only know. Where are we going, children dear? To a beautiful country that’s very near, Hand in hand is the way to go Up into fairyland you know. E. Nesbit. |
HOP PICKING. | |
Ahme, how pleasant to go down From the forlorn and faded town To Kentish wood and fold and lane, And breathe God’s blessed air again; Where glorious yellow corn-fields blaze And nuts hang over woodland ways. To pick the sweet keen-scented hops, (See from each pole a dream-wreath drops) To toil all day in pure clear air, Laughter and sunshine everywhere— With reddening woods and sweet wet soil And well-earned rest and honest toil. |  |
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 | Wheredo we fly, under deep dark sky? Over the moors we go, Over the pool where quiet and cool Bulrush and sedges grow— And what was the loveliest thing we met? Ah—we forget! We remember though all the firelit glow Of a great hearth’s gleam and glare, And we looked for a space at each happy face And the love that was written there. And that, of all we have looked on yet— We least forget! |
