But I wooed her once more when the hills were full
Of reapers bowing the corn,
And their cheerful voices who gathered it in
Were ringing from night till morn;
And purple and crimson were buds we snatched
As the cold keen sickle drew near,
To weave a wreath for the harvest feast,
The last of the waning year.
And I wound it round her, and bade her yield,
Yield to my flowery chain;
But she broke the bond with a blush and a smile,
And my vows were breathed in vain.
“I may not woo thee, dear maiden, now,”
I sighed ’neath the wintry sky,
“My hopes, like earth’s treasures, have withered away,
And buried in coldness lie;
But love’s truest mission shall still be mine,
To bow to each storm and wait,
With a changeless faith, that in brighter hours
May win it a happier fate!”
Then she yielded her waist to my circling arm,
And her crimsoning cheek to my kiss,
And whispered, “I had been easier won,
Had your wooing been ever as this.”
