Under the maple boughs we sat,
Annie Leslie and I together;
She was trimming her sea-side hat
With leaves—we talked about the weather.
The sun-beams lit her gleaming hair
With rippling waves of golden glory,
And eyes of blue, and ringlets fair,
Suggested many an ancient story
Of fair-haired, blue-eyed maids of old,
In durance held by grim magicians,
Of knights in armor rough with gold,
Who rescued them from such positions.
Above, the heavens aglow with light,
Beneath our feet the sleeping ocean,
E'en as the sky my hope was bright,
Deep as the sea was my devotion.
Her father's voice came through the wood,
He'd made a fortune tanning leather;
I was his clerk; I thought it good
To keep on talking about the weather.