In France Poem by Bryan Waller Procter

In France



The poplars in the fields of France

Are golden ladies come to dance;

But yet to see them there is none

But I and the September sun.



The girl who in their shadow sits

Can only see the sock she knits;

Her dog is watching all the day

That not a cow shall go astray.



The leisurely contented cows

Can only see the earth they browse;

Their piebald bodies through the grass

With busy, munching noses pass.



Alone the sun and I behold

Processions crowned with shining gold -

The poplars in the fields of France,

Like glorious ladies come to dance.

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