Classic Poem

Again the year is at the prime,
With flush of rose and cuckoo-croon;
Care doffs his wrinkled air, and Time
Foots to a gamesome tune.
So, ho, my lads, an' if you will
But follow underneath the hill,
It's strawberries! strawberries!
You shall feast, and have your fill.

The elder clusters promise wine
Wheredips the path along the lane;
The early lowing of the kine
Floats like a far refrain.
You will forget to dream indeed
Of fruit that Georgian loam-lands breed
In strawberries! strawberries!
That wait for us in Martin's mead.

Then haste, before the sun be high,
And, haply, catch the morning star,
For, ere the cups of dew be dry,
The berries sweetest are.
And if, perchance, a rustic lass
In merriment a-milking pass,
It's strawberries! strawberries!
On her lips as in the grass.