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30
Street Music
Under the coppice a clover-patch,
A swinging gate, and a sun-kiss'd maid;
And I heard once more what those sweet lips said;
And those sweet lips said: 'I will.'
Her hair fell rippling over her neck,
Her face a-blush like a budding rose,
So soft, so pure, with never a speck.
Ah! who would have thought of the scatter'd leaves,
And the aphis at heart! How the face deceives,
Though blind Love thinks he knows!
Then my lips were parched with a longing thirst,
And my temples throbbed as though they would
burst,
Till the tune died away, and another ran
From under the hand of the organ-man:
And June was not, but November drear,
Wearing her weeds for the dying year.
