50
(Oh, the rosemary and rue
That within her garden grew!)
Singing—
Wringing—
Bare arms flinging—
All the way I heard her singing—
"Lovers meet—and lovers part—
Where's the need to break one's heart?"
That within her garden grew!)
Singing—
Wringing—
Bare arms flinging—
All the way I heard her singing—
"Lovers meet—and lovers part—
Where's the need to break one's heart?"
Her arms were white as milky curds;
Her speech was like the song of birds;
Her eyes were grey as mountain lakes
Where dream of shadow stirs and breaks.
Her gown was print—her name was Sally—
Her summer years were barely twenty—
She dropped the soap to glance and dally,
And then the dimples came in plenty!
I praised her fingers, dripping sweet,
Where warmth and whiteness seemed to meet—
I made her blush, and made her pout,
And watched her wring her linen out.
Oh, to meet her in the valley,
Snatch her hand, and call her Sally!
Her speech was like the song of birds;
Her eyes were grey as mountain lakes
Where dream of shadow stirs and breaks.
Her gown was print—her name was Sally—
Her summer years were barely twenty—
She dropped the soap to glance and dally,
And then the dimples came in plenty!
I praised her fingers, dripping sweet,
Where warmth and whiteness seemed to meet—
I made her blush, and made her pout,
And watched her wring her linen out.
Oh, to meet her in the valley,
Snatch her hand, and call her Sally!
