The summer sun was soft and bland,

As they went through the meadow land.

The little wind that hardly shook

The silver of the sleeping brook

Blew the gold hair about her eyes,––

A mystery of mysteries!

So he must often pause, and stoop,

And all the wanton ringlets loop

Behind her dainty ear––emprise

Of slow event and many sighs.

Across the stream was scarce a step,––

And yet she feared to try the leap;

And he, to still her sweet alarm,

Must lift her over on his arm.

She could not keep the narrow way,

For still the little feet would stray,

And ever must he bend t’ undo

The tangled grasses from her shoe,––

121

From dainty rosebud lips in pout,

Must kiss the perfect flowÉr out!

Ah! little coquette! Fair deceit!

Some things are bitter that were sweet.