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.