IN THE AFTERNOON

You in the hammock; and I, near by,

Was trying to read, and to swing you, too;

And the green of the sward was so kind to the eye,

And the shade of the maples so cool and blue,

That often I looked from the book to you

To say as much, with a sigh.

You in the hammock. The book we'd brought

From the parlor — to read in the open air,—

Something of love and of Launcelot

And Guinevere, I believe, was there —

But the afternoon, it was far more fair

Than the poem was, I thought.

You in the hammock; and on and on.

I droned and droned through the rhythmic stuff —

But, with always a half of my vision gone

Over the top of the page — enough

To caressingly gaze at you, swathed in the fluff

Of your hair and your odorous “lawn.”

You in the hammock — and that was a year —

Fully a year ago, I guess —

And what do we care for their Guinevere

And her Launcelot and their lordliness!—

You in the hammock still, and — Yes —

Kiss me again, my dear!