Down in the wheatfield where the poppies burn
We gather arms of corn, and laugh and shout,
And chase the rainbow wings of butterflies;
Cups of hot tea the comfort that we earn,
Cheese and wedged cherry cake; and all about
Sprawling at ease, we envy not the wise !
Dusk drifts across the hills and we return
As o’er us hangs the moon her lanthorn out,
And dew like stars on sleeping daisies lies.
When of those golden hours I dream, I yearn
With feelings that are charged with helpless pain,
With longing that can never find relief,
Once more to tie the bursting harvest sheaf,
And stare in wonder at the moon again.
Weekly Times 8.1.60