Classic Poem

In hay-fields where the hedge-boughs cope
The sunny hedge-bank's flow'ry slope,
Out where the prickly wildrose blows,
Above the bloomy bramble-bows,
Some maiden cries, ‘The briars prick
My fingers to the very quick;
Come pull me down a wild rose, do,
For I can't cope with it like you!’

And out in meadows, where the hay,
Now nearly dry, is rustling gray,
Before the touch of rake or prongs,
And under women's merry songs;
Then there, as I by chance come by
The laughing girls, I hear them cry,
‘Come pull me down a woodbine, do,
For I can't reach it there. Can you?’

And down beside the river's brim,
Where whirling waters softly swim—
Where we can see the bulrush nod
Its club upon its slender rod;
Then there, as merry girls behold
The water-lily's flow'r of gold,
They cry, ‘Oh! rake me out one, do,
For I can't reach it in. Can you?’