The Walk


The lonesome wood anemonie,
Now trembles in the gale;
And bows in wood, and meadow lea,
Like maidens all so pale.
So Mary let the flowers be thine,
And we'll together go
Where they in quaking clusters shine,
And brimming rivers flow. —


The beauties they of early spring,
A fairer beauty thou:
We'll gather them as fairy things,
To deck thy lovely brow,
We'll wander by the river side;
With waters flowing o'er:
We'll trace the marshes far and wide,
And talk love stories o'er.


For there's the bright-march-marygold
Like sun-rays from the west,
They'll shine like gold in thy black hair;
Or broach upon thy breast.
And though the stooping willow tree,
Shews not one leaf of gray,
The grassy sward has charms for thee,
And sunny is the day.


So come my dearest Mary Ann,
And meet the morning air;
The larks are doing all they can,
To cheer thee, young, and fair; —
We'll crop the large marsh marygold,
And wood anemonie;
Sweet is the morning, free from cold,
And music's in each tree.
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