  F or a year my love lies down, In a little western town, And the sun upon the corn is not so sweet; At the chill time of the year, On the hills where roams my dear, There is honey in the traces of her feet. If my longing I could get, I would take her in a net, And would ease my aching sorrow for a while; And though all men say me nay I shall wed her on a day, She my darling of the sweet and sunny smile. I have finished with the plough, And must sow my seedlands now, I must labour in the face of wind and weather; But in rain and frost and snow, Always as I come and go, I am thinking she and I should be together. It is little that you care Though I perish in the blackness of my grief; But may you never tread God's Heaven overhead, If you scorn me and refuse my love relief. I would count them little worth, All the women of the earth, And myself alone to have the choice among them; For in books I read it clear, That the beauty of my dear, It has wrestled with their beauties and has flung them. Robin Flower. |
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