And bluer than in August rose the village smoke and higher,
And large and red among the stacks the ripened pumpkins shone,—
One hour, in which to say farewell, was left to us alone;
And sweet are the lanes of New England.
We loved each other truly! hard, hard it was to part;
But my ring was on her finger, and her hair lay next my heart.
“’Tis but a year, my darling,” I said; “in one short year,
When our Western home is ready, I shall seek my Katie here”;
And brave is the hope of New England.
I went to gain a home for her, and in the Golden State