 | A lover's diary |  |
20
MONA, KNITTING.
Knitting at her mother's door,
Underneath a sycamore,
That did long, white arms extend
Round about her, like a friend,
Saw I maiden Mona next.
She was now become the text
Of my dreams, my thoughts, my life,—
Would she, could she be my wife?
Underneath a sycamore,
That did long, white arms extend
Round about her, like a friend,
Saw I maiden Mona next.
She was now become the text
Of my dreams, my thoughts, my life,—
Would she, could she be my wife?
Rows of pinks on either side,
With their red mouths open wide,
And the quail, with tawny breast
Swelling out above her nest,
And the lily's speckled head
Shining o'er the spearmint bed;
All were fair, but more than fair
Maiden Mona, knitting there.
With their red mouths open wide,
And the quail, with tawny breast
Swelling out above her nest,
And the lily's speckled head
Shining o'er the spearmint bed;
21
Maiden Mona, knitting there.
Round her eyes the hair fell down,—
Sunshine on a leafy brown,—
And her simple rustic dress
Witched my wordly eyes, I guess,
For her apron blue did lie
Like a little patch o' the sky
In her lap, beside the door
Underneath the sycamore.
Sunshine on a leafy brown,—
And her simple rustic dress
Witched my wordly eyes, I guess,
For her apron blue did lie
Like a little patch o' the sky
In her lap, beside the door
Underneath the sycamore.
Something sacred did divide her
From me, when I stood beside her:
I was born to house and land,—
She had but her heart and hand,
Yet she seemed so high above
The aspiring of my love,
That I stood in bashful shame,
Trembling just to speak her name.
From me, when I stood beside her:
I was born to house and land,—
She had but her heart and hand,
Yet she seemed so high above
The aspiring of my love,
That I stood in bashful shame,
Trembling just to speak her name.
| A lover's diary | |