That sparkled ’neath each long-fringed lid,
Where those bright eyes of blue were hid;
Adown the shoulders, brown and bare,
Rolled the soft waves of golden hair.
3. So on they ride, until among
The new born leaves with dew-drops hung,
The parsonage, arrayed in white,
Peers out—a more than welcome sight.
Then with a cloud upon his face,
“What shall we do?” he turned to say,