Wood-Strawberries

I went to the wood where the strawberries grow,

And picked till my hands were red.

The grass was cool and the sun came warm

Through the branches overhead.

Berry to berry beckoned me,

Pointed and wild and sweet;

It seemed there was nothing to do at all

But fill my hands and eat.

Nothing but greenness under foot,

Greenery overhead,

And jewel-bright under their scalloped leaves

Wild wood-strawberries red.