The road lay curved like a ribbon of gold,
Around the base of the hill,
And the brook gleamed out with a silver sheen,
From thickets near the mill.
But the sun shone warm on the dusty road,
Until by heat oppressed,
We wearily stopped at a cottage gate;
The matron bade us rest.
How cool was the shade of the trumpet-vine,
A spring ran fresh and clear?