Ruth. 
By Hood, Thomas. 


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 grow 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, "Heav'n did not mean,
Where I reap thou shouldst but glean.
Lay thy sheaf adown and come
Share my harvest and my home.