For an old swing gate,
By the side of an oak-girt stream.
’Twas not the lure of a gate that led,
Nor yet of an oak-fringed creek,
But the memory of a gold-thatched head
And a tear-besprinkled cheek—
A stifled sigh,
And a last good-bye
In the language that love can speak!
I pictured Kate at the cottage door,