Maybe, with humble cart, and poor wares hawking,
Thy life-course nearly run?
Be thankful that thou dost not e’er remember
One radiant summer day;
That dreams of June come not in thy December,
When skies are cold and gray!
He rode on thee along the sunny highway,
To meet me where I stood
Out from the village, in a soft green by-way—
Our young hearts were in flood.