Ruth

By Thomas Hood

She stood breast-high amid the corn.
Clasped by the golden light of morn,
Like the sweetheart of the sun,
Who many a glowing kiss had won.

On her cheek an autumn flush,
Deeply ripened; -- such a blush
In the midst of brown was born,
Like red poppies grown with corn.

Round her eyes, her tresses fell;
Which were blackest none could tell,
But long lashes veiled a light
That had else been all too bright.

And her hat, with shady brim,
Made her tressy forehead dim; --
Thus she stood amid the stooks,
Praising God with sweetest looks: --

Sure, I said, Heaven did not mean
Where I reap thou shouldst but glean;
Lay thy sheaf adown, and come,
Share my harvest and my home.