It goes beneath a checkered arch
Of leaf and sunlight, oak and larch;
Athwart a mead of meadow-sweet,
A field of lily-bordered wheat;
Through groves of bridal birch it turns,
And mossy hollows, deep in ferns;
Then up a hill and down a glen,
From Nowhere out and back again;
And many feet have worn it plain —
That errant way of Lovers' Lane.

There, unafraid, the wood-folk play;
There wanton briers dip and sway
To catch and keep whatever comes
And make much work for clumsy thumbs
Of loosing tress and lacing shoe —
Such tasks as lovers love to do.
Of tales there told with eye or tongue
I need not tell — if ye were young —
Nor yet of castles reared in Spain
By architects of Lovers' Lane.

If Lovers' Lane ye wander through,
That roadway's rule is " two by two, "
Although the path is wondrous strait;
For here's a hedge, and there's a gate,
A brook, a stile, a quaking moss,
The strong must help the weak to cross;
Then, deep in shade ere set of sun,
Its dells are never safe for one —
Still (must the sorry truth be known?)
In Lovers' Lane I walk alone!