Classic Poem

Tripping down the field-path,
—Early in the morn,
There I met my own love
—'Midst the golden corn;
Autumn winds were blowing,
—As in frolic chase,
All her silken ringlets
—Backward from her face;
Little time for speaking
—Had she, for the wind,
Bonnet, scarf, or ribbon,
—Ever swept behind.

Still some sweet improvement
—In her beauty shone;
Every graceful movement
—Won me,—one by one!
As the breath of Venus
—Seemed the breeze of morn,
Blowing thus between us,
—'Midst the golden corn.
Little time for wooing
—Had we, for the wind
Still kept on undoing
—What we sought to bind.

Oh! that autumn morning
—In my heart it beams,
Love's last look adorning
—With its dream of dreams:
Still, like waters flowing
—In the ocean shell,
Sounds of breezes blowing
—In my spirit dwell;
Still I see the field-path;—
—Would that I could see
Her whose graceful beauty
—Lost is now to me!