We drifted with the glist’ning tide,
Adown the classic Brandywine.
We heard the lowing of the kine—
We saw the trees their boughs entwine,
And o’er the meadows newly mown
The soft light beamed.
I held her dimpled hand in mine,
And from each dainty, curving line
I read her fate—till, bolder grown,
I dared to join it with my own;