Leaves whisper low in the Upper Thames reaches—
Blue is the sky, and the shade mighty pleasant,
Under the beeches:
Midsummer night is, they say, made for dreaming;
Better by far are the visions of daytime—
Pink and white frocks in the meadow are gleaming—
Helping in Haytime!
Sunshine, I'm told, is productive of freckles—
Sweet are the zephyrs, hay-scented and soothful—
Work is, of all things, so says Mr. Eccles,