The squadrons of the sun still hold
The western hills, their armor glances,
Their crimson banners wide unfold,
Low-levelled lie their golden lances.
The shadows lurk along the shore,
Where, as our row-boat lightly passes,
The ripples startled by our oar,
Hide murmuring 'neath the hanging grasses.
Your eyes are downcast, for the light
Is lingering on your lids—forgetting
How late it is—for one last sight
Of you the sun delays his setting.
One hand droops idly from the boat,
And round the white and swaying fingers,
Like half-blown lilies gone afloat,
The amorous water, toying, lingers.
I see you smile behind your book,
Your gentle eyes concealing, under
Their drooping lids a laughing look
That's partly fun, and partly wonder
That I, a man of presence grave,
Who fight for bread 'neath Themis' banner
Should all at once begin to rave
In this—I trust—Aldrichian manner.
They say our lake is—sad, but true—
The mill-pond of a Yankee village,
Its swelling shores devoted to
The various forms of kitchen tillage;
That you're no more a maiden fair,
And I no lover, young and glowing;
Just an old, sober, married pair,
Who, after tea, have gone out rowing
Ah, dear, when memories, old and sweet,
Have fooled my reason thus, believe me,
Your eyes can only help the cheat,
Your smile more thoroughly deceive me.
I think it well that men, dear wife,
Are sometimes with such madness smitten,
Else little joy would be in life,
And little poetry be written.