Charles Swain

* * *

Tripping down the field-path, 
  Early in the morn, 
There I met my own love 
  'Midst the golden corn; 
Autumn winds were blowing,
  As in frolic chase, 
All her silken ringlets 
  Backward from her face; 
Little time for speaking 
  Had she, for the wind,
Bonnet, scarf, or ribbon, 
  Ever swept behind. 
 
Still some sweet improvement 
  In her beauty shone; 
Every graceful movement
  Won me,--one by one! 
As the breath of Venus 
  Seemed the breeze of morn, 
Blowing thus between us, 
  'Midst the golden corn.
Little time for wooing 
  Had we, for the wind 
Still kept on undoing 
  What we sought to bind. 
 
Oh! that autumn morning 
  In my heart it beams, 
Love's last look adorning 
  With its dream of dreams: 
Still, like waters flowing 
  In the ocean shell,
Sounds of breezes blowing 
  In my spirit dwell; 
Still I see the field-path;--
  Would that I could see 
Her whose graceful beauty
  Lost is now to me!