Low in the road under the withering hedge
They stand, the woman drearyand thin shouldered.
The three small ragged boys,—and the white faces
They lift to the high hedge are blotched with cold.
The autumn wind cries thinly, and dead leaves
Shiver, and the broad highway from the town
Is white as those white faces looking up.
Standing a-tiptoe, straining the puny muscles
Of naked legs, they are beating the withered hedge
With sticks, crying upon it to let fall
Its scanty treasure of high-held bramble-berries.
Slowly the fruit drops, berry after berry.
Now red, now black, on to the dusty road,
And thin hands snatch it all, and the little hoard
In the basket grows, and the bony arms beat on.
And the wind cries round them, and the dead leaves shiver.

And we who pass by, wonder, for we know
How at the bend the dull white highway breaks
Into brown tangled lanes bright-lit with gorse,
Where over russet bracken the bramble spreads
Red trailing leaves, and gives her clustered fruit
To whomso wills. 'Tis but a little way,
Do they not know ? Or are those puny limbs
Too tired to venture? Or does the withering hedge
Taunt and defy them with its high-held berries
To spend their strength for such a poor reward ?