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.
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[Illustration: You in the hammock; and I, near by]
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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!
[Illustration: In the afternoon--tailpiece]
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