And far-off then
The little owl within the lonely glen.
And soon, full soon,
The silvery arrival of the moon.
And, to your door,
The path of roses I have trod before.
And, sweetheart, you!
Among the roses and the moonlit dew.
Swinging
Under the boughs of spring
She swung in the old rope-swing.
Her cheeks, with their happy blood,
Were pink as the apple-bud.
Her eyes, with their deep delight,
Were glad as the stars of night.
Her curls, with their romp and fun,
Were hoiden as wind and sun.