Down through the woodland we wander, an arm nestled soft within mine,
Strolling and losing out way as if by some hidden design.
(Don't blame me! 'T is quite accidental!) But hardly one rapturous hour
Has passed ere my angel in muslin discovers an oncoming shower.
'T is so; from the westward approaching it comes like a mountain of foam,
Blackest of seas at the base and whitest of spray at the dome.
The blue sky pales before it like flowers at winter's breath,
But round us the air is heavy, silent and still as death.
A pleasant position for lovers! - O joy, while the thunder-clouds warn
Most darkly, we see in the clearing what cannot be else than a barn.
'T is time, for we scarce are in shelter, though hardly disdaining to run,
Ere the pattering drops on the rooftree announce that the storm has begun.
Now let it thunder and lighten, now let the tempest arise!
The blue from the heavens has faded, but yet dwells the blue of her eyes, -
Just fancy a curtain descending; just guess at my language to her;
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The Senior Transparency.
