Strawberry Poems

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1. Strawberries

   by John Townsend Trowbridge

   
   

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   Little Pearl Honeydew, six years old,
   From her bright ear parted the curls of gold;
   And laid her head on the strawberry bed,
   To hear what the red-cheeked berries said.
   

   Their cheeks were blushing, their breath was sweet,
   She could almost hear their little hearts beat;
   And the tiniest, lisping, whispering sound
   That ever you heard, came up from the ground.
   

   "Little friends," she said, "I wish I knew
   How it is you thrive on sun and dew!"
   And this is the story the berries told
   To little Pearl Honeydew, six years old.
   

   "You wish you knew? And so do we.
   But we can't tell you, unless it be
   That the same Kind Power that cares for you
   Takes care of poor little berries, too.
   

   "Tucked up snugly, and nestled below
   Our coverlid of wind-woven snow,
   We peep and listen, all winter long,
   For the first spring day and the bluebird's song.
   

   "When the swallows fly home to the old brown shed,
   And the robins build on the bough overhead,
   Then out from the mold, from the darkness and cold,
   Blossom and runner and leaf unfold.
   

   "Good children, then, if they come near,
   And hearken a good long while, may hear
   A wonderful tramping of little feet,—
   So fast we grow in the summer heat.
   

   "Our clocks are the flowers; and they count the hours
   Till we can mellow in suns and showers,
   With warmth of the west wind and heat of the south,
   A ripe red berry for a ripe red month.
   

   "Apple blooms whiten, and peach blooms fall,
   And roses are gay by the garden wall,
   Ere the daisy's dial gives the sign
   That we may invite little Pearl to dine.
   

   "The days are longest, the month is June,
   The year is nearing its golden noon,
   The weather is fine, and our feast is spread
   With a green cloth and berries red.
   

   "Just take us betwixt your finger and thumb,
   And quick, oh, quick! for, see! there come
   Tom on all fours, and Martin the man,
   And Margaret, picking as fast as they can.
   

   "Oh, dear! if you only knew how it shocks
   Nice berries like us to be sold by the box,
   And eaten by strangers, and paid for with pelf,
   You would surely take pity, and eat us yourself!"
   

   And this is the story the small lips told
   To dear Pearl Honeydew, six years old,
   When she laid her head on the strawberry bed
   To hear what the red-cheeked berries said.
   

2. Strawberry Time

   by Margaret E. Sangster

   
   

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   When the strawberry, ripening, blushes
   To meet the sweet looks of the sun,
   Then faintly the fair laurel flushes;
   Then gayly the eager winds run
   To tell, upon hillside and meadow,
   The coming of festival days,
   While out from his nest in the shadow
   The bird pours his jubilant lays.
   

   The pasture-lands dimple with clover,
   The buttercups dazzle and shine;
   The wide fields of summer brim over
   With dreams of a perfume divine;
   And forth go the children as merry,
   As harvesters seeking for sheaves,
   With bright eyes discerning the berry,
   A ruby mid emerald leaves.
   

   Brown-handed, sun-freckled, they linger
   To eat the sweet globes while they pick;
   What care they for stain on the finger,
   So ripe is the treasure, and thick;
   Like music their innocent laughter
   Rings out o'er their frolic and haste;
   Ah! never will berries hereafter
   Hold nectar so rich to the taste.
   

   Hereafter, when shrill voices cry them,
   Discordant, through streets of the town,
   And gravely they bargain and buy them,
   Their value in silver pay down,—
   Yet haply remembering childhood,
   They'll say, as at evening they eat:
   "The berries we found in the wildwood,
   Unsugared, were surely more sweet."
   

   And yet can the dear, evanescent,
   Illusive, full charm of the fruit
   Be known to the children whose present
   Suffices unto them? The root
   Of every glad hour of pleasure
   Must grow, deeply struck, in the past;
   And so is our berry a treasure
   Less prized at the first than at last.
   

   For now as the shy things are blushing
   Low down mid their leaves on the ground,
   As the delicate laurels are flushing
   On hillock and meadow and mound,—
   We, working and weary with labor,
   Shut in among houses of brick,
   Hear sounds, as of pipe and of tabor,
   From fields where the berries are thick.
   

3. Wild Strawberries

   by Jean Blewett

   
   

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   The glad, glad days, and the pleasant ways—
   Ho! for the fields and the wildwood!
   The scents, the sights, and the dear delights—
   Ho! for our care-free childhood!
   

   Heavy the air with a fragrance rare,
   Strawberries ripe in the meadow,
   Lucious and red where the vines are spread
   Thickly in sun and shadow.
   

   The glad, glad days, and the pleasant ways,
   Chorus of wild birds calling:
   "Strawberry ripe! Ho! strawberry ripe!"
   From dawn till the dew is falling.
   

4. Wild Strawberries

   by Alice Crocker Waite

   
   

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   I know where the wild strawberries grow.
   'Tis where the fragrant zephyrs blow
   Over wild rose and grasses low,
   On the pasture hills.
   

   Where sumachs and sweet fern abound,
   The dewy berries kiss the ground,
   The crimson berries fondly found,
   On the pasture hills.
   

   Fragrant and sweet are the berries rare,
   Ripening 'mid the daisies fair,
   Absorbing dew and perfumed air
   On the pasture hills.
   

5. Summer Fruits

   by Margaret E. Sangster

   
   

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   When scarlet strawberries first were seen
   A blush their clustering leaves between,
   I thought that never fruit could be
   Delicious as the strawberry.
   

   When cherries ripened firm and fine,
   The blackbirds shared their feast with mine,
   And Summer's sunshine seemed to glow
   On satin skin and heart of snow.
   

   When threaded close on slender stems
   The currants gleamed like priceless gems;
   When peaches held the velvet cheek
   The south wind's coy caress to seek;
   

   The loveliest which I could not choose,
   Unwilling one fair gift to lose,
   Where frost and fire, and old and new,
   And night and day, and dusk and dew,
   

   Had blent to tinge the living sap
   And shape the cup for Nature's lap.
   Now near and far the apple's wealth
   Is servitor of joy and health,
   

   And all along the vineyard's line
   The purple grapes are sweet as wine,
   For He who pledges daily bread,
   With bounty hath our table spread.
   

   And as the singing winds go by,
   The drifting odors make reply;
   And brook and forest, mount and flood,
   Chant "Praise the Lord, for He is good."
   

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