Classic Poem

The conference-meeting through at last,
— We boys around the vestry waited
To see the girls come tripping past,
— Like snow-birds willing to be mated.

Not braver he that leaps the wall
— By level musket-flashes bitten,
Than I, that stepped before them all
— Who longed to see me get the mitten.

But no! she blushed and took my arm:
— We let the old folks have the highway,
And started toward the Maple Farm
— Along a kind of lovers' by-way.

I can't remember what we said, —
— 'Twas nothing worth a song or story;
Yet that rude path by which we sped
— Seemed all transformed and in a glory.

The snow was crisp beneath our feet,
— The moon was full, the fields were gleaming;
By hood and tippet sheltered sweet,
— Her face with youth and health was beaming.

The little hand outside her muff
— (O sculptor! if you could but mold it)
So lightly touched my jacket-cuff,
— To keep it warm I had to hold it.

To have her with me there alone, —
— 'Twas love and fear and triumph blended:
At last we reached the foot-worn stone
— Where that delicious journey ended.

The old folks, too, were almost home:
— Her dimpled hand the latches fingered,
We heard the voices nearer come,
— Yet on the doorstep still we lingered.

She shook her ringlets from her hood,
— And with a " Thank you, Ned! " dissembled;
But yet I knew she understood
— With what a daring wish I trembled.

A cloud passed kindly overhead,
— The moon was slyly peeping through it,
Yet hid its face, as if it said —
— " Come, now or never! do it! do it! "

My lips till then had only known
— The kiss of mother and of sister, —
But somehow, full upon her own
— Sweet, rosy, darling mouth, — I kissed her!

Perhaps 'twas boyish love: yet still,
— O listless woman! weary lover!
To feel once more that fresh, wild thrill
— I'd give — but who can live youth over?