These thing I long to be. I long
To be the burthen of some song
You love to sing; a melody,
Sure of sweet immortality.
15
At the gate. She speaks.
Sunday shall we ride together?—
Not the root-rough, rambling way
Through the wood we went that day,
In last summer's sultry weather.
Past the Methodist camp-meeting,
Where religion helped the hymn
Gather volume; and a slim
Minister, with textful greeting
Welcomed us and still expounded.—
From the service on the hill
We had gone three hills and still
Very near the singing sounded.
Nor that road through weed and berry
Drowsy days led me and you
To the old-time barbecue,
Where the country-side made merry.
Dusty vehicles together;
Darkies with the horses near
Tied to trees; the atmosphere
Redolent of bark and leather.
As we went the homeward journey
You exclaimed,—"They intermix
Pleasure there with politics.
It reminds me of a tourney."
And the fiddles!—through the thickets,
How the wind brought from the hill
Remnants of the old quadrille!—
It was like the drone of crickets....