The poplars in the fields of France 
Are golden ladies come to dance; 
But yet to see them there is none 
But I and the September sun. 

The girl who in their shadow sits 
Can only see the sock she knits; 
Her dog is watching all the day 
That not a cow shall go astray. 

The leisurely contented cows 
Can only see the earth they browse; 
Their piebald bodies through the grass 
With busy, munching noses pass. 

Alone the sun and I behold 
Processions crowned with shining gold -- 
The poplars in the fields of France, 
Like glorious ladies come to dance.