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THE OLD SWING |
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 | The poems of Madison Cawein |  |
146
THE OLD SWING
Under the boughs of spring
She swung in the old rope-swing.
She swung in the old rope-swing.
Her cheeks, with their happy blood,
Glowed pink as the apple-bud.
Glowed pink as the apple-bud.
Her eyes, with their deep delight,
Shone glad as the stars of night.
Shone glad as the stars of night.
Her curls, with their romp and fun,
Tossed hoiden to wind and sun.
Tossed hoiden to wind and sun.
Her lips, with their laughter shrill,
Rippled like some wild rill.
Rippled like some wild rill.
Under the boughs of spring
She swung in the old rope-swing.
She swung in the old rope-swing.
And I,—who leaned on the fence,
Watching her innocence,
Watching her innocence,
147
As, under the boughs that bent,
Now high, now low, she went,
Now high, now low, she went,
In her soul the ecstasies
Of the stars, the brooks, the breeze,—
Of the stars, the brooks, the breeze,—
Had given the rest of my years,
With their blessings, and hopes, and fears,
With their blessings, and hopes, and fears,
To have been as she was then;
And, just for a moment, again
And, just for a moment, again
A boy in the old rope-swing
Under the boughs of spring.
Under the boughs of spring.
| The poems of Madison Cawein | |