Like half-blown lilies gone afloat,

The amorous water, toying, lingers.

I see you smile behind your book,

Your gentle eyes concealing, under

Their drooping lids a laughing look

That's partly fun, and partly wonder

That I, a man of presence grave,

Who fight for bread 'neath Themis' banner

Should all at once begin to rave

In this—I trust—Aldrichian manner.

They say our lake is—sad, but true—

The mill-pond of a Yankee village,

Its swelling shores devoted to

The various forms of kitchen tillage;

That you're no more a maiden fair,

And I no lover, young and glowing;

Just an old, sober, married pair,

Who, after tea, have gone out rowing

Ah, dear, when memories, old and sweet,

Have fooled my reason thus, believe me,

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