The sun beat down on it, the line
Of shade was clear beneath the trees;
There, by a clustering eglantine,
We sat at ease.
And O the buttercups! that field
O' the cloth of gold, where pennons swam—
Where France set up his lilied shield,
His oriflamb,
And Henry's lion-standard rolled:
What was it to their matchless sheen,
Their million million drops of gold
Among the green!
We sat at ease in peaceful trust,
For he had written, "Let us meet;
My wife grew tired of smoke and dust,
And London heat,
"And I have found a quiet grange,
Set back in meadows sloping west,
And there our little ones can range
And she can rest.
"Come down, that we may show the view,
And she may hear your voice again,
And talk her woman's talk with you
Along the lane."
Since he had drawn with listless hand
The letter, six long years had fled,
And winds had blown about the sand,
And they were wed.
Two rosy urchins near him played,
Or watched, entranced, the shapely ships
That with his knife for them he made
Of elder slips.
And where the flowers were thickest shed,
Each blossom like a burnished gem,
A creeping baby reared its head,
And cooed at them.
And calm was on the father's face,
And love was in the mother's eyes;
She looked and listened from her place,
In tender wise.