C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.

Ruth

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 grown 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, heaven did not mean

Where I reap thou shouldst but glean:

Lay they sheaf adown and come,

Share my harvest and my home.