They hear the dreams of drowsy bees and watch those buccaneers unseen
Cling yellow to the clover masts and trailing ropes of wild blue pea,
And breathe the brine of daisy froth that drifts
between the walls of sea.

Their fingers pluck the glowing fruit, their lips and cheeks
are smeared and dyed;
Their snowy bonnets brush the grass like lifting top-sails on a tide;
And when their little pails brim red and rosy hands will hold no more,
They steer long shadows down the waves that float
their tired feet to shore.




The Wood Trail

Down between the branches drops a low, soft wind.
Where the narrow trail begins there start I.
Yellow sun and shadow are spinning gold behind,
Long brakes are clutching as my knees brush by.

Hidden glades are pink with the twin linnaea,
Sweet with scented fronds and the warm, wet fern;
Flute the far-off rain-birds sad and clear,
Flash the pigeon blossoms at each sharp turn.

Pungent breathe the balsams by the stream's low banks;
Rotting wood and violets lie side by side;
Glows the scarlet fungus through the alder ranks,