One time I wooed a maid (dear is she yet!)
All in the revel eye of young Love's moon.
Content she made me,—ah, my dimpling mate,
My Springtime girl, who walked with flower-shoon!
But near me, nearer, steals a deep-eyed maid
With creeping glance that sees and will not see,
And blush that would those yea-sweet eyes upbraid,—
O, might I woo her nor inconstant be!
But is not Autumn dreamtime of the Spring?
(Yon scarlet fruit-bell is a flower asleep;)
And I am not forsworn if yet I keep
Dream-faith with Spring in Autumn's deeper kiss.
Then so, brown maiden, take this true-love ring,
And lay thy long, soft locks where my heart is.