THROUGH the uncombed grasses Of the ungroomed North The brown berry-pickers Come gaily forth -- Come where the purple Makes a royal sward For an uncrowned king, For an unknown lord. I can hear a tune As their fingers play In the clean, warm air Of a summer's day. Brown-eyed Agnes, Swift-footed Kate, Are picking blueberries For my cold, white plate. Any berry's flavor Would taste very good If plucked by brown fingers In a frayed, wild wood. Mary has a fair eye And a trim waist: I touch her dark beauty In this berry's taste. Sweetest is the berry, Sweetest to the tongue, When the berry-pickers Are blithe and young. Dwellers of the wilderness Long have understood Old crones should never gather Berries in a wood. |