Page:Pictures In Rhyme.djvu/54

30 Under the coppice a clover-patch, A swinging gate, and a sun-kiss'd maid; And I heard once more what those sweet lips said; And those sweet lips said: 'I will.'

Her hair fell rippling over her neck, Her face a-blush like a budding rose, So soft, so pure, with never a speck. Ah! who would have thought of the scatter'd leaves, And the aphis at heart! How the face deceives, Though blind Love thinks he knows!

Then my lips were parched with a longing thirst, And my temples throbbed as though they would burst, Till the tune died away, and another ran From under the hand of the organ-man: And June was not, but November drear, Wearing her weeds for the dying year.