Classic Poem

That gusty spring, each afternoon
—By the ivied cot I passed,
And noted at that lattice soon
—Her fair face downward cast;
Still in the same place seated there,
So diligent, so very fair.

Oft-times I said I knew her not,
—Yet that way round would go,
Until, when evenings lengthened out,
—And bloomed the may-hedge row,
I met her by the wayside well,
Whose waters, maybe, broke the spell.

For, leaning on her pail, she prayed,
—I'd lift it to her head.
So did I; but I'm much afraid
—Some wasteful drops were shed,
And that we blushed, as face to face
Needs must we stand the shortest space.

Then when the sunset mellowed through
—The ears of rustling grain,
When lattices wide open flew,
—When ash-leaves fell like rain,
As well as I she knew the hour
At morn or eve I neared her bower.

And now that snow o'erlays the thatch,
—Each starlit eve within
The door she waits, I raise the latch,
—And kiss her lifted chin;
Nor do I think we've blushed again,
For Love hath made but one of twain.