Hop Picking

Ah me, how pleasant to go down
From the forlorn and faded town
To Kentish wood and fold and lane,
And breathe God's blessed air again;
Where glorious yellow corn-fields blaze
And nuts hang over woodland ways.

To pick the sweet keen-scented hops,
(See from each pole a dream-wreath drops)
To toil all day in pure clear air,
Laughter and sunshine everywhere--
With reddening woods and sweet wet soil
And well-earned rest and honest toil.