_They meet again under the greenwood tree. He speaks:_
Here at last! And do you know That again you've kept me waiting? Wondering, anticipating, If your "yes" meant "no."
Now you're here we'll have our day.... Let us take this daisied hollow, And beneath these beeches follow This wild strip of way
Towards the stream; wherein are seen Stealing gar and darting minnow; Over which snake-feeders winnow Wings of black and green.
Like a cactus flames the sun; And the mighty weaver, Even, Tenuous colored, there in heaven, His rich weft's begun....
How I love you! from the time-- You remember, do you not?-- When, within your orchard-plot, I was reading rhyme,
As I told you. And 'twas thus-- "By the blue Trinacrian sea, Far in pastoral Sicily With Theocritus"--
That I answered you who asked. But the curious part was this:-- That the whole thing was amiss; That the Greek but masked
Tales of old Boccaccio-- Tall Decameronian maids Strolled among Italian glades, Smiling, sweet and slow.
And when you approached,--my book Dropped in wonder,--seemingly To myself I said, "'Tis she!" And arose to look
In Lauretta's eyes and--true! Found them yours.--You shook your head, Laughing at me, as you said, "Did I frighten you?"
You had come for cherries; these Dreamily I climbed for while You still questioned with a smile, And still tried to tease.
Ah, love, just two years have gone Since then. I remember, you Wore a dress of billowy blue Muslin, or of lawn.
And that apron still I see,-- White, with cherry-juice red-stained,-- Which you held; wherein I rained Ripeness from the tree.
And I asked you--for, you know, To my eyes your serious eyes Spoke such sweet philosophies,-- If you'd read Rousseau.
You remember how a chance, Somewhat like to mine, one June Happened him at castle Toune, Over there in France?
And a cherry dropping fair On your cheek I, envying it, Said--remembering Rousseau's wit-- "Would my lips were there!"
How you laughed and blushed, I know.-- Here's the stream. The west has narrowed To a streak of gold, deep arrowed.-- There's a skiff. Let's row.
Waters, flowing dark and bright In the sunlight or the moon, Seize my soul with such delight As a visible music might; As some slow, majestic tune Made material to the sight.