The poetical works of Edmund Clarence StedmanStedman, Edmund Clarence
General
The poetical works of Edmund Clarence Stedman
Stedman, Edmund Clarence
American poetry -- 19th century
Lightly the waves she measures
Up to the wharves of the town;
There, unlading her treasures,
Lovingly puts them down.
Come with me, ladies; cluster
Here on the western pier;
Look at her jewels’ lustre,
Changed with the changing year!
First of the months to woo her,
June his strawberries flings
Over her garniture,
Bringing her exquisite things;
Rifling his richest casket;
Handing her, everywhere,
Garnets in crate and basket;
Knowing she soon will wear
Blackberry jet and lava,
Raspberries ruby-red,
Trinkets that August gave her,
Over her toilet spread.
After such gifts have faded,
Then the peaches are seen,—
Coral and ivory braided,
Fit for an Indian queen.
And September will send her,
Proud of his wealth, and bold,
Melons glowing in splendor,
Emeralds set with gold.
So she glides to the Narrows,
Where the forts are astir:
Her speed is a shining arrow’s!
Guns are silent for her.
So she glides to the ringing
Bells of the belfried town,
Kissing the wharves, and flinging
All of her jewels down.
Whence she gathers her riches,
Ladies, now would you see?
Leaving your city niches,
Wander awhile with me.
IV.
1. 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 cloth
Where the elves may kneel and plight their troth.
2. Run through the rustling vines, to show
Each picker an even space to go,
Leaders of twinkling cord divide
The field in lanes from side to side;
And here and there with patient care,
Lifting the leafage everywhere,
Rural maidens and mothers dot
The 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.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
Reviews
Reviews
No reviews yet
Be the first to share your thoughts on this work.
Join the Discussion
Join the discussion
Sign in to leave a comment or review.
Sign InorCreate an account