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.