Classic Poem

The hand that ruled the helm was yours,
The arm that bent the oar was mine;
The breeze that blew across the moors
Was breath of meadows blent with brine;

It whirled the reddened leaf along,
It stirred your silken-tendriled hair,
It teased the wave to rill in song,
It played upon my shoulders bare.

In time with even dip and swing
And crisp of feathered oars aslant,
We roused the crags where laurels cling
With Eton's mellow rowing-chant.

So down that sparkling reach we came
On keel of cedar, silver-shod,
Our bows aglow with leaves aflame
And gunwale-deep in goldenrod.