YVONNE OF BRITTANY

In your mother's apple-orchard,

Just a year ago, last spring:

Do you remember, Yvonne!

The dear trees lavishing

Rain of their starry blossoms

To make you a coronet?

Do you ever remember, Yvonne?

As I remember yet.

In your mother's apple-orchard,

When the world was left behind:

You were shy, so shy, Yvonne!

But your eyes were calm and kind.

We spoke of the apple harvest,

When the cider press is set,

And such-like trifles, Yvonne!

That doubtless you forget.

In the still, soft Breton twilight,

We were silent; words were few,

Till your mother came out chiding,

For the grass was bright with dew:

But I know your heart was beating,

Like a fluttered, frightened dove.

Do you ever remember, Yvonne?

That first faint flush of love?

In the fulness of midsummer,

When the apple-bloom was shed,

Oh, brave was your surrender,

Though shy the words you said.

I was glad, so glad, Yvonne!

To have led you home at last;

Do you ever remember, Yvonne!

How swiftly the days passed?