We looked at the leaves, we looked at the sky;
We looked at the brook which bubbled near by,—
Yes! bubbled near by,
Through the quiet meadow.
A bird sang on the swinging vine,—
Yes! on the vine,—
And then,—sang not;
I took your little white hand in mine;
’Twas April; ’twas Sunday; ’twas warm sunshine,—
Yes! warm sunshine: