Dropping Corn

Pretty Phoebe Lane and I,
In the soft May weather,
Barefoot down the furrows went
Dropping corn together.


Side by side across the field
Back and forth we hurried;
All the golden grains we dropped
Soon the ploughshare buried.


Bluebirds on the hedges sat,
Chirping low and billing;
"Why," thought I, "not follow suit,
If the maid is willing?"


So I whispered, "Phoebe, dear,
Kiss me"--"Keep on dropping!"
Called her father from the plough;
"There 's no time for stopping!"


The cord was loosed,--the moment sped;
The golden charm was broken!
Nevermore between us two
Word of love was spoken.


What a little slip, sometimes,
All our hope releases!
How the merest breath of chance
Breaks our joy in pieces!


Sorrow's cup, though often drained,
Never lacks for filling;
And we can't get Fortune's kiss
When the maid is willing!