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Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). A Victorian Anthology, 1837–1895. 1895.

Charles Swain 1803–74

Tripping Down the Field-Path

TRIPPING down the field-path,

Early in the morn,

There I met my own love

’Midst the golden corn;

Autumn winds were blowing,

As in frolic chase,

All her silken ringlets

Backward from her face;

Little time for speaking

Had she, for the wind,

Bonnet, scarf, or ribbon,

Ever swept behind.

Still some sweet improvement

In her beauty shone;

Every graceful movement

Won me,—one by one!

As the breath of Venus

Seemed the breeze of morn,

Blowing thus between us,

’Midst the golden corn.

Little time for wooing

Had we, for the wind

Still kept on undoing

What we sought to bind.

Oh! that autumn morning

In my heart it beams,

Love’s last look adorning

With its dream of dreams:

Still, like waters flowing

In the ocean shell,

Sounds of breezes blowing

In my spirit dwell;

Still I see the field-path;—

Would that I could see

Her whose graceful beauty

Lost is now to me!