Wild Strawberries

 Strawberries that in gardens grow 
 Are plump and juicy fine, 
But sweeter far as wise men know 
 Spring from the woodland vine.
 

No need for bowl or silver spoon, 
 Sugar or spice or cream, 
Has the wild berry plucked in June 
 Beside the trickling stream.
 

One such to melt at the tongue's root, 
 Confounding taste with scent, 
Beats a full peck of garden fruit: 
 Which points my argument.
 

May sudden justice overtake 
 And snap the froward pen, 
That old and palsied poets shake 
 Against the minds of men.
 

Blasphemers trusting to hold caught 
 In far-flung webs of ink, 
The utmost ends of human thought 
 Till nothing's left to think.
 

But may the gift of heavenly peace 
 And glory for all time 
Keep the boy Tom who tending geese 
 First made the nursery rhyme.

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