The Field-'Path

Tripping down the field-path
Early in the morn,
There I met my own love
'Midst the golden corn;
Autumn winds were blowing,
As in frolic chase,
All her silken ringlets
Backward from her face;
Little time for speaking

Had she, for the wind
Bonnet, scarf, or ribbon
Ever swept behind.
Still some sweet improvement
In her beauty shone;
Every graceful movement
Won me, one by one!
Little time for wooing
Had we, for the wind

Still kept on undoing
What we sought to bind
Still I see the field-path: —
Would that I could see
Her whose graceful beauty
Lost is now to me!