Classic Poem

She roamed the meadows long in hope
That in some sunny dingle fair,
She'd meet her youth with golden hair,
Giving to her some little care;
Alas! unloved she seemed to grope.
He was not there, in vain her prayer.

One morn she saw him; 'gainst her will
Her waiting heart did faster beat;
And yet he came not her to greet,
Nor did his eyes her sad eyes meet.
“O wayward heart!” she said, “be still!
It is not he! it cannot be!

“Ah! welladay! my dream is o'er.
I must the bitter truth believe;
Why still my soul with hopes deceive?
'Twas he! and yet the more I grieve
I love him better than before.
Ah! if he knew, he'd love me too.”

She roamed the meadows long in hope
That in some sunny dingle fair,
She'd meet her youth with golden hair,
Giving to her some little care;
Alas! unloved she seemed to grope.
He was not there, in vain her prayer.

One morn she saw him; 'gainst her will
Her waiting heart did faster beat;
And yet he came not her to greet,
Nor did his eyes her sad eyes meet.
“O wayward heart!” she said, “be still!
It is not he! it cannot be!

“Ah! welladay! my dream is o'er.
I must the bitter truth believe;
Why still my soul with hopes deceive?
'Twas he! and yet the more I grieve
I love him better than before.
Ah! if he knew, he'd love me too.”