Her eyes were resting on his face,
As shyly glad, by stealth to glean
Impressions of his manly grace
And guarded mien;
The mouth with steady sweetness set,
And eyes conveying unaware
The distant hint of some regret
That harbored there.
She gazed, and in the tender flush
That made her face like roses blown,
And in the radiance and the hush,
Her thought was shown.
It was a happy thing to sit
So near, nor mar his reverie;
She looked not for a part in it,
So meek was she.
But it was solace for her eyes,
And for her heart, that yearned to him,
To watch apart in loving wise
Those musings dim.
Lost—lost, and gone! The Pelham woods
Were full of doves that cooed at ease;
The orchis filled her purple hoods
For dainty bees.
He heard not; all the delicate air
Was fresh with falling water-spray:
It mattered not—he was not there,
But far away.
Till with the hazel in his hand,
Still drowned in thought it thus befell;
He drew a letter on the sand—
The letter L.
And looking on it, straight there wrought
A ruddy flush about his brow;
His letter woke him: absent thought
Rushed homeward now.
And half-abashed, his hasty touch
Effaced it with a tell-tale care,
As if his action had been much,
And not his air.