Loaded to the water's brim

With the clean, cool-scented pine.

Perhaps in some low meadow-land,

Stretching wide on either hand,

I shall see the belted bees

Rocking with the tricksy breeze

In the spirèd meadow-sweet,

Or with eager trampling feet

Burrowing in the boneset blooms,

Treading out the dry perfumes.

Where sun-hot hay-fields newly mown

Climb the hillside ruddy brown,

I shall see the haymakers,

While the noonday scarcely stirs,

Brown of neck and booted gray,

Tossing up the rustling hay,

While the hay-racks bend and rock,

As they take each scented cock,

[51]

Jolting over dip and rise;

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