After the broken threads of rain, 
I drop in warm corn amid the poppies 
and scatter the beads that have done showering. 

My lover comes down like a weather-cock, 
clean and burnished by the winds: 
a bell tolls while he looks for me. 

Ey! his coat is smart and his cheeks rosy: 
he wears a poppy in his hat. 
I tremble as he climbs the stile. 

He looks for me by ditch and hedge, 
(his hands hang down, their toil dropped out,) 
in long grass, docks and fern and brambles, 

in hay-riff, mint and stinging-nettles! 
he looks for me, but he cannot find me . . . 
The O! he sees me, spidered in the corn! 

and laughing, leaps to lift me up 
and thrust away my waiting threads 
and free me from my lonely bond.