I
“I know, I know;
The way doth go
Athwart a greenwood glade, oh!
White bloom the wild-plums in that glade,
White as the bosom of the maid
Who, stooping, sits, and milks and sings
Among the dew-dashed clover rings,
When fades the flush, the henna blush,
The orange-glow of sunset low,
And all the winds are laid, oh!”
II
“I wot, I wot.—
And is it not
Right o’er the viney hill?—”
“Yea: where the wild-grapes mat and make
Penthouses of each bramble-brake,
And dangle plumes of fragrant blooms:
Where threads of sunbeams string the glooms
With beaded gold; and flowers unfold
Their eyes of blue;—and all night through
Sings, wildly shrill, one whippoorwill.”
III
“I ween, I ween,
The path is green
’Neath beechen boughs that let
Soft glimpses of the sapphire sky
Gleam downward like a wood-nymph’s eye:
At night one far and lambent star
Shines o’er it, like a watching Lar,
’Mid branching buds a tangled bud
Among the acres of the wood,
Where blooms the wet wild violet
And only we have, trysting, met.”