Bright his hair was, a golden brown,
The time we stood at our mother’s knee:
That beauteous head, if it did go down,
Carried sunshine into the sea.
Out in the fields one summer night
We were together, half afraid
Of the corn leaves rustling, and of the shade
Of the high hills, stretching so far and still,—
Loitering till after the low little light
Of the candle shone through the open door,