Classic Poem

When the rye is tall as Marian's head
By the path as she comes to me,
And the rose in her hair—the rose of red—
Is laved by the bearded sea,
It is then to the trysting place we hie
Where the gray-green billows go over the rye.

There are deeper joys—the lure of her eyes—
And the warmth of her loving kiss,
But after the rapture—after the sighs,
A lingering pleasure is this,
In the shade at her darling feet to lie
As the rolling billows go over the rye.

Tho' the white cloud calls, yet the sea of green
With its wonderful waves is fair;
Tho' the red-wing hovers o'er head to feign
That his nest in the grass is there,
Yet our hearts are set on the lights that fly
O'er the magical reach of the waves of rye.

And I ask will she follow me clear of the Day
Out over that ocean of green,
To an isle that basks in the Far-Away,
That only lovers have seen,
And deep in her eyes is the sweet reply
As we drift afar o'er the sea of rye.