Charles Swain (1801–1874)

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!

Little time for wooing

Had we, for the wind

Still kept on undoing

What we sought to bind …

Still I see the field-path:—

Would that I could see

Her whose graceful beauty

Lost is now to me!