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.
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!