DOWN a spring-scented bridle-path,
The fresh woods hanging over,
And out into the light again,
Across bee-haunted clover,
Our weary horses, side by side,
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Drooping their heads together,
Crushed the sweet Mayflower, trailing wide, -
Trampled the fern's green feather.
The April sunlight through the trees,
Across our pathway shining,
Turns dew-drops diamonds on the vines
Among the boughs entwining.
A prettier picture never has
Pencil or pen depicted;
That homeward heartless I should ride
Small wisdom had predicted!
Ah! could we thus forever stay,
I riding by your bridle, -
Why can't we always be at play,
And I be always idle?
J. K. M.
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The Yale Freshman Nine.
