82
poems.
One day in summer's golden hour,
When all that's gladsome feels her power,
A young man passed along that way,
Twirling a rose, bright crimson and gay.
When all that's gladsome feels her power,
A young man passed along that way,
Twirling a rose, bright crimson and gay.
He saw sweet Evelyn across the stile,
Plying her needle all the while;
He ventured near, and doffed his hat,
And soon commenced a friendly chat.
Plying her needle all the while;
He ventured near, and doffed his hat,
And soon commenced a friendly chat.
"Young maiden, why spend thine hours here,
When the songs of birds are blithe and clear?
Your tripping feet should be dancing still
Over the brow of yonder hill."
When the songs of birds are blithe and clear?
Your tripping feet should be dancing still
Over the brow of yonder hill."
Sweet Evelyn looked up with roguish smile,
Plying her needle all the while,—
"I dearly love to stay," she said,
"Where sunbeams are glancing overhead.
Plying her needle all the while,—
"I dearly love to stay," she said,
"Where sunbeams are glancing overhead.
"The forest is warm and gay, I see,
But its bright-hued leaves are dull to me;
My home is here, and here I trill
My plaintive song, like the whippoorwill."
But its bright-hued leaves are dull to me;
My home is here, and here I trill
My plaintive song, like the whippoorwill."
