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Yet full of all their colours rare, ■ 
Their sweetness and their grace. 
They are bright flowers, that spring to cheer 
E’en penury’s wilderness, 
And often with a swelling heart, 
Those human flowers I bless. 
Kind blessings on their bold, clear eyes, 
And elvish, unbound hair;— 
And blessings on their laughter wild, 
Mid crags and moorlands bare! 
In autumn mornings forth they go 
With baskets to the wold, 
Some of wicker, some of rush, 
Some new, and many old. 
And over mountain, over glen, 
The merry creatures bound, 
On to the wide and boggy heaths, 
Where a thousand streamlets sound. 
The small bare legs all splash about, 
Heeding not cold nor wet, 
So long as busy eyes can see, 
And hands the treasure get. 
“And after all this toil and moil, 
What profit win they thence ?”— 
Perhaps a long day’s work may bring 
A few poor sordid pence. 
