Here the grain, the grass, the field;
There the woods, fence half concealed.
Here more than can be possessed.
Hidden treasure rare revealed.
The grains’ gold seems over run --
Buttery beams, melting sun.
Caught in freshest summer breeze
Is the place where I have come
To pluck watercress from a creek,
Amid seedy mustard and green leek.
Feathering my life like a nest.
Listening to time hardly speak.
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