A PAIR of oldsters, humble folk, come straying
Along the street; their hands are linked, they smile
Like comrades who are fain to go a-maying,
Their cares forgot the while.

A little basket bears their food, their faces
Are rosy-wrinkled and their eyes so bright
You'd say that they were bound for fairy places
Of far-away delight.

But no; in truth, their fond intent is only
To rest an hour or so the fields among,
Where flowers blow free and clouds sail high and lonely
And lays of birds are sung.

For they are country-bred and so the city
Saddens their hearts, week-long immured for toil;
They know the ugliness, the want of pity,
Where myriad workers moil.

Quaint is their garb; his coat is out of fashion,
Her bonnet never won an envious glance;
But watch his care, his almost lyric passion
Her comfort to enhance.

And see how she repays it, dumb or speaking,
By every look and tone and turn of head. . . .
Onward they go, the open country seeking,
There to be comforted.

'Tis not when we are young, in time of roses —
Roses and bird-songs and the bloom of youth —
Love shines most beautiful and full discloses
The wonders of his worth.

Old and uncouth? Not so; by every gesture
They stand confessed: the faith in them is seen.
The twain have donned Love's bright immortal vesture:
Behold them — king and queen!