‘Twas
twilight on the placid lake,
We two were in the skiff;
And
for an hour we’d hung beneath
The shadows of a cliff.
She
at the stern, I at the oars,
And heav’nly she did seem!
As
‘neath the brim of supple straw
Shone forth a poet’s dream.
“Ah!
were the stern wide enough
For
two!” I madly cried;
“But
come, mind not the tiller, love,
My seat is firm and wide;
Come,
help me row, we’re far from shore,
And night comes on,” I said;
But
she, blushed slightly at her thoughts,
And shook her pretty head.
“Ah!
no,” said she, I would not dare,
Row farther on, you may,
But
I must steer,” and to my prayers
She shook her tresses “nay”.
“Art
not afraid?” I sorely asked,
With slightly blushing brow;
“‘Afraid’?
O, no, you cross old stick,
It’s most – too light – just now.”
June
27, ‘94
Pub.
in Boston
Courier,
Sept. 16,
1894
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