Freston
131
And she,—the peasant girl, whose dark glad eyes
Turn with delight toward birds, and flowers and skies;
Flashing and swift to draw into the heart
All nature's charm, of which she is a part;—
You see her wander, guided by her will,
But mostly through the vineyards on the hill,—
Flying along, with wind-blown, dusky hair
Floating upon the breeze, and brown feet bare;
And ever by her side is found the Boy,—
Her slave, her guide, her comrade, and her joy.
Turn with delight toward birds, and flowers and skies;
Flashing and swift to draw into the heart
All nature's charm, of which she is a part;—
You see her wander, guided by her will,
But mostly through the vineyards on the hill,—
Flying along, with wind-blown, dusky hair
Floating upon the breeze, and brown feet bare;
And ever by her side is found the Boy,—
Her slave, her guide, her comrade, and her joy.
She tells of the glad vintage-time, when all
Go mad with song; and the quick, rhymic fall
Of purple fruit to baskets brimming o'er,—
The revel, till the vines hold nothing more.
And ever by her side is found the Boy,
To do her bidding, and to share her joy;—
To gaily romp with her upon the lea,—
When tired, to rest his head upon her knee;
To pour his heart out at her careless feet,—
To tell her all his dreams,—the visions sweet
Of fairy realms, where he shall rule as king,
When the gift comes, that Fate is sure to bring.
Go mad with song; and the quick, rhymic fall
Of purple fruit to baskets brimming o'er,—
The revel, till the vines hold nothing more.
And ever by her side is found the Boy,
To do her bidding, and to share her joy;—
To gaily romp with her upon the lea,—
When tired, to rest his head upon her knee;
To pour his heart out at her careless feet,—
To tell her all his dreams,—the visions sweet
Of fairy realms, where he shall rule as king,
When the gift comes, that Fate is sure to bring.
He longs for something that he cannot name;—
Some call it Power, and others call it Fame—
Again he sits, with dreamy, brooding eyes,
Some call it Power, and others call it Fame—
Again he sits, with dreamy, brooding eyes,
