‘Swing me higher—up to the sky!’
‘Nay; then I should lose you,’ he made reply,
Under the hawthorn bough.
Oh, perfume sweet!—she pulled the branch;
Flowers on her face fell tenderly;
At the orchard gate, ‘Good-night, dear love!’
Light in the lattice and stars above,
And ‘Take this bloom from me.’
Summer again, and a last good-bye,
Fair head resting in sunset ray;