Her lips, with their laughter shrill,
Were wild as a woodland rill.
Under the boughs of spring
She swung in the old rope-swing.
And I,—who leaned on the fence,
Watching her innocence,
As, under the boughs that bent,
Now high, now low, she went,
In her soul the ecstasies
Of the stars, the brooks, the breeze,—
Had given the rest of my years,
With their blessings, and hopes, and fears,
To have been as she was then;
And, just for a moment, again,
A boy in the old rope-swing
Under the boughs of spring.