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!
End of title
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