The Trysting-Tree

Meet me, love, where the woodbines grow
And where the wild rose smells most sweet;
And the breezes, as they softliest blow,
Meet;

Passing along through the field of wheat,
By the hedge where in spring the violets glow,
And the blue-bells blossom around one’s feet;

Where latest lingers the drifted snow,
And the fir-tree grows o’er our trysting-seat,
Come-and your love, as long ago,
Meet.

Charles Sayle.