I sat and sewed, and sang some tender tune, Oh, beauteous was that morn in early June! Mellow with sunlight, and with blossoms fair: The climbing rose-tree grew about me there, And checked with shade the sunny portico Where, morns like this, I came to read, or sew. I heard the gate click, and a firm, quick tread Upon the walk. No need to turn my head; I would mistake, and doubt my own voice sounding, Before his step upon the gravel bounding. In an unstudied attitude of grace, He stretched his comely form; and from his face He tossed the dark, damp curls; and at my knees, With his broad hat he fanned the lazy breeze, And turned his head, and lifted his large eyes, Of that strange hue we see …
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