Have you seen the golfers airy
Prancing forth to their vagary,
Just as frisky in their gaiters
As a flock of Grecian Satyrs,
Last night some yellow letters fell
From out a scrip I found by chance;
Among them was the silent ghost,
The spirit of my first romance:
Bartholomew is very sweet,
From sandy hair to rosy feet.
I'm greedy by nature, and often in vain
Have lingered too long o'er the succulent hare,
Accepting the jelly, ignoring the pain,
Intent on receiving far more than my share.
HERE in the country’s heart
Where the grass is green,
Life is the same sweet life
As it e’er hath been.
O might I leave this grassy place
For spreading foam about my feet!
The splendid spray upon my face,
The flying brine itself were sweet
On Helen’s heart the day were night!
But I may not adventure there:
Here breast is guarded by a right,
And she is true as fair.
In summer, when the grass is thick, if Mother has the time,
She shows me with her pencil how a poet makes a rhyme,
If you passed her in your city
You would call her badly dressed,
But the faded homespun covers
Such a heart in such a breast!