She Stood Breast High Amid The Corn Clasp'D 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 Ripen'D; - 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 Veil'D 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, Heav'N Did Not Mean, Where I Reap Thou Shouldst But Glean, Lay Thy Sheaf Adown And Come, Share My Harvest And My Home.