Between wide fields of wheat and corn,
An old gate, gray and weather-worn,
Led down a shady woodland way.
One scarce might trace the narrow path,
So green it was and overgrown
With springtime’s seeded aftermath;
Tall grasses that had never known
The mower’s scythe or sickle’s scath,
And rosy mayweed lightly sown
Where’er the summer winds had blown;