Classic Poem

How often in the summer-tide,
His graver business set aside,
Has stripling Will, the thoughtful-eyed,
— As to the pipe of Pan,
Stepped blithesomely with lover's pride
— Across the fields to Anne.

It must have been a merry mile,
This summer stroll by hedge and stile,
With sweet foreknowledge all the while
— How sure the pathway ran
To dear delights of kiss and smile,
— Across the fields to Anne.

The silly sheep that graze to-day,
I wot, they let him go his way,
Nor once looked up, as who would say:
— " It is a seemly man. "
For many lads went wooing aye
— Across the fields to Anne.

The oaks, they have a wiser look;
Mayhap they whispered to the brook:
" The world by him shall yet be shook,
— It is in nature's plan;
Though now he fleets like any rook
— Across the fields to Anne. "

And I am sure, that on some hour
Coquetting soft 'twixt sun and shower,
He stooped and broke a daisy-flower
— With heart of tiny span,
And bore it as a lover's dower
— Across the fields to Anne.

While from her cottage garden-bed
She plucked a jasmin's goodlihede,
To scent his jerkin's brown instead;
— Now since that love began,
What luckier swain than he who sped
— Across the fields to Anne?

The winding path whereon I pace,
The hedgerows green, the summer's grace,
Are still before me face to face;
— Methinks I almost can
Turn port and join the singing race
— Across the fields to Anne.