Ii

If I were her lover, I’d wade through the clover Over the fields before The lane that leads to her door; I’d wait, ’mid the thickets, Or there by the pickets, White pickets that fence in her door, For the life of my life and more. I’d lean in the clover-- The crisper For the dews that are over-- And whisper: “Your lips are as rare As the dewberries there, As ripe and as red, On the honey-dew fed” ... If I were her lover to whisper.