VII. FATHERS.
Move through the bowering hops, O lovers,—
Wander down to the golden West,—
But two stand mute in the shade that covers
Your love and youth from their souls opprest.
A little shame on their spirits stealing,—
A little pride that is loth to sue,—
A little struggle with soften'd feeling,—
And a world of fatherly care for you.
One says: "To this same running water,
May be, Neighbor, your claim is best."
And one—"Your son has kissed my daughter:
Let the matters between us—rest."