Poems (Angier)/The Berry Harvest

by Annie Lanman Angier

THE BERRY HARVEST.

Hie away to the harvest, boy, matron, and maid,
Of viper or vermin let none be afraid;
And gear up the horse for the sickly and old,
For berry-time, sure, is our true age of gold.

Speed off o'er the fields, to the pasture so green,
Where berries the ripest and thickest are seen,
Each bush nods a welcome to all who will come,
Then linger not lazily, drone-like at home.

Rise up with the robin, and brisk as the bee,
Go forth to the woods, they are waiting for thee;
Pail, basket, pan, dipper, each soon shall be filled,
The crop proves the soil was by skilful lands tilled.

Kind Heaven sows broadcast the sweet berry seed,
On high place and low, over hill-top and mead,
And nature's voice calls thee, the summons obey;
Come, gather my harvest of berries to-day.

It matters but little what garment is worn,
Ten chances to one that the dress will be torn,
For coat, hat, and bonnet, the worst ones will do,
But guard well the feet, or this tramp you may rue.

Thus clad, sally forth, and the forest will smile,
Gray rocks shall re-echo your glad song the while,
The old will grow young as the past is lived o'er,
When some joined their sport who will share it no more.

No daintier meal for the best need be spread,
Than berries and milk, with good old-fashioned bread;
How oft when a child, followed supper like this,
A kind father's good-night and a fond mother's kiss.

Alike for us all, both the great and the small,
Is heard in the soft breath of summer the call—
My fruit-feast is ready, wide-open the door,
For low and for high, for the wealthy and poor.

Then hie to the harvest, boy, matron, and maid,
Of viper or vermin let none be afraid;
And gear up the horse for the sickly and old,
For berry-time, sure, is our true age of gold.