Alice of Monmouth IV

The strawberry-vines lie in the sun,Their myriad tendrils twined in one;Spread like a carpet of richest dyes,The strawberry-field in sunshine lies.Each timorous berry, blushing red,Has folded the leaves above her head,The dark, green curtains gemmed with dew;But each blushful berry, peering through,Shows like a flock of the underthread,—The crimson woof of a downy clothWhere the elves may kneel and plight their troth.

Run through the rustling vines, to showEach picker an even space to go,Leaders of twinkling cord divideThe field in lanes from side to side;And here and there with patient care,Lifting the leafage everywhere,Rural maidens and mothers dotThe velvet of the strawberry-plot:Fair and freckled, old and young,With baskets at their girdles hung,Searching the plants with no rude haste,Lest berries should hang unpicked, and waste:—Of the pulpy, odorous, hidden quest,First gift of the fruity months, and best.

Crates of the laden baskets coolUnder the trees at the meadow’s edge,Covered with grass and dripping sedge,And lily-leaves from the shaded pool;Filled, and ready to be borneTo market before the morrow morn.Beside them, gazing at the skies,Hour after hour a young man lies.From the hillside, under the trees,He looks across the field, and seesThe waves that ever beyond it climb,Whitening the rye-slope’s early prime;At times he listens, listlessly,To the tree-toad singing in the tree,Or sees the catbird peck his fillWith feathers adroop and roguish bill.But often, with a pleased unrest,He lifts his glances to the west,Watching the kirtles, red and blue,Which cross the meadow in his view;And he hears, anon, the busy throngSing the Strawberry-Pickers’ Song:

“Rifle the sweets our meadows bear,Ere the day has reached its nooning;While the skies are fair, and the morning airAwakens the thrush’s tuning.

“Softly the rivulet’s ripples flow;Dark is the grove that lovers know;Here, where the whitest blossoms blow,The reddest and ripest berries grow.

“Bend to the crimson fruit, whose stainIs glowing on lips and fingers;The sun has lain in the leafy plain,And the dust of his pinions lingers.

“Softly the rivulet’s ripples flow;Dark is the grove that lovers know;Here, where the whitest blossoms blow,The reddest and ripest berries grow.

“Gather the cones which lie concealed,With their vines your foreheads wreathing;The strawberry-field its sweets shall yieldWhile the western winds are breathing.

“Softly the rivulet’s ripples flow;Dark is the grove that lovers know;Here, where the whitest blossoms blow,The reddest and ripest berries grow.”

From the far hillside comes againAn echo of the pickers’ strain.Sweetly the group their cadence keep;Swiftly their hands the trailers sweep;The vines are stripped and the song is sung,A joyous labor for old and young;For the blithe children, gleaning behindThe women, marvellous treasures find.

From the workers a maiden parts:The baskets at her waistband shineWith berries that look like bleeding heartsOf a hundred lovers at her shrine;No Eastern girl were girdled so wellWith 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 shadeOf the chestnut copse at the edge of the glade,She moves from her mates, through happy rowsOf the children loving her as she goes.Alice, our Alice! one and all,Striving to stay her footsteps, call(For children with skilful choice dispenseThe largesse of their innocence);But on, with a sister’s smile, she movesInto 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.

Turning her violet eyes, their raysGlistened 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 graceThat laborer’s daughter glorifies!I never saw a fairer face,I never heard a sweeter voice;And oh! were she my father’s choice,My father’s choice and mine were oneIn the strawberry-field and morning sun.”