SARAH HILDRETH BUTLER.
47
II.
What woods were those where, in the April weather,Dell under dell of darkness and of dew,Along the Rock Creek paths we rode together!Over us swept the eagles, swept the blue;Under us, in green gloom of ferns and foam,The brook glanced. Here the red-bud broke in blushes,And like a press of moonbeams far abroadThe dogwood lit the forest glades. The thrushesAnswered our songs unseen. The horses trodIn measure to our music, that glad noon,On beds of the wild heart's-ease velvet shod.Singing, we sped, and recked not in our tune.Of storm, eclipse, and the dark interlune!
III.
Whether the ford splash round me now, or slowlyI loiter up the great hill-side, to restWhere some old earthwork hides its melancholy
