A YEAR’S WOOING.
’Twas autumn when first they stood on the bridge;
Ripe pears on the pear-tree, ripe corn on the ridge;
The swallows flew swiftly far up in the blue,
And speeding still southward, were lost to the view.
Said he: ‘Can you love me, as I can love you?’
She said, quite demurely: ‘Already I do!’
’Twas winter when next they met on the bridge;
The pear-trees were brown, and white was the ridge;