Classic Poem

Along the path across the lea
At eve I often stray,
From out her arbour peepeth she —
It stands beside the way:
'Tis not that we appointments make,
'Tis but the course events will take.

Howe'er it chanced I cannot guess,
I've learnt to kiss her, long;
I ask her not — she saith not " yes " ,
Yet never saith — " 'tis wrong " :
When lip on lip doth softly rest,
We leave them so, we seem so blest!

The Zephyr with the rose doth play,
Yet asks not — " Think'st me dear? "
The bud that loves the dew's cool spray
Needs not to say — " Come near. "
I love her well — so loves she me,
Yet neither saith — " I pine for thee. "