On grass, on gravel, in the sun,
Or now beneath the shade,
They went, in pleasant Kensington,
A prentice and a maid.
That Sunday mornings April glow,
How should it not impart
A stir about the veins that flow
To feed the youthful heart.
Ah! years may come, and years may bring
The truth that is not bliss,
But will they bring another thing
That can compare with this?
I read it in that arm she lays
So soft on his; her mien,
Her step, her very gown betrays
(What in her eyes were seen)
That not in vain the young buds round,
The cawing birds above,
The air, the incense of the ground,
Are whispering, breathing love.
Ah I years may come, &c.
To inclination, young and blind,
So perfect, as they lent,
...