When the firing and the drying’s done, off at the call I go,
And once again, this very morn, I climb the high Sunglo.
XXI.
My wicker basket slung on arm, and hair entwined with flowers,
To the slopes I go of high Sunglo, and pick the tea for hours;
How laugh we, sisters, on the road; what a merry turn we’ve got;
I giggle and say, as I point down the way, There, look, there lies our cot!
XXII.
Your handmaid ’neath the sweet green shade in sheltered cot abides,
Where the pendant willow’s sweeping bough the thatchy dwelling hides;