Cross Lots.

Cross Lots.
464.6

Straight it ran through buttercups,
Blue eyed grass and timothy,
Clover, where the wild bee sups.
And the tall weed waving free:
Just a little trodden lane.
Narrow as a mower’s swath.
Oh, to set my feet again
In that little brown footpath-
‘Cross lots!

By a little well it led.
Deep and dark, with mossy brink;
Half a mile my feet have sped
Just to get one cooling drink!
Daisies nodded. bright and wet
From the dipper’s sprinkling bath.
Oh, once more my feet to set
In the little brown footpath-
‘Cross lota!

Strawberries grew wild and sweet:
You could smell them in the grassi
Crimson red and the dewy feet
Of each barefoot lad and Jasa
Oh, to hear the whetting weythe!
Sweetest note that muste hath!
Some riad morning, gay and blitha
I will find that brown footpath-
‘Cross lots!
-Anna Burnham Bryant.