  It was a shady nook that I had found Deep in the greenwood. A delicious stream Ran softly by it on a bed of grass, And to the border leant a sloping bank Of moss as delicate as Tempe e'er Spread for the sleep of Io. Overhead The spreading larch was woven with the fir, And as the summer wind stole listlessly, And dallied with the tree tops, they would part And let in sprinklings of the sunny light, Studding the moss like silver; and again Returning to their places, there would come A murmur from the touched and stirring leaves, That like a far-off instrument, beguiled Your mood into the idleness of sleep. Here did I win thee, Viola! We came— Thou knowest how carelessly—and never thought Love lived in such a wilderness; and thou— I had a cousin's kindness for thy lip, And in the meshes of thy chesnut hair I loved to hide my fingers—that was all! And when I saw thy figure on the grass, And thy straw bonnet flung aside, I thought A fairy would be pretty, painted so Upon a ground of green—but that was all! And when thou playfully wouldst bathe thy foot, And the clear water of the stream ran off And left the white skin polished, why, I thought It looked like ivory—but that was all! And when thou wouldst be serious, and I Was serious too, and thy mere fairy's hand Lay carelessly in mine, and just for thought I mused upon thy innocence and gaz'd Upon the pure transparence of thy brow— I pressed thy fingers half unconsciously, And fell in love. Was that all, Viola? |
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