3. Crates of the laden baskets cool Under 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 borne To 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 sees The 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 fill With 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 throng Sing the Strawberry-Pickers’ Song: 4. “Rifle the sweets our meadows bear, Ere the day has reached its nooning; While the skies are fair, and the morning air Awakens 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 stain Is 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 yield While 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._” 5. From the far hillside comes again An 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 behind The women, marvellous treasures find.