Now swarms the village o'er the jovial mead: <br />The rustic youth, brown with meridian toil, <br />Healthful and strong; full as the summer-rose <br />Blown by prevailing suns, the ruddy maid, <br />Half naked, swelling on the sight, and all <br />Her kindled graces burning o'er her cheek. <br />E'en stooping age is here; and infant hands <br />Trail the long rake, or, with the fragrant load <br />O'ercharged, amid the kind oppression roll. <br />Wide flies the tedded grain; all in a row <br />Advancing broad, or wheeling round the field, <br />They spread the breathing harvest to the sun, <br />That throws refreshful round a rural smell: <br />Or, as they rake the green-appearing ground, <br />And drive the dusky wave along the mead, <br />The russet hay-cock rises thick behind, <br />In order gay. While heard from dale to dale, <br />Waking the breeze, resounds the blended voice <br />Of happy labour, love, and social glee.<br /><br />James Thomson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/summer-149/
