In ivy, reaching to its rose,
Waiting the Sunday multitude!



VI.

A red rose in her raven hair
Whose curls forbade the plait and braid,
The bride slid down the oaken stair,
And mantled like a bashful maid,
As, seated in the waiting chair,

Behind the fragrant urn, she poured
The nectar of the morn's repast;
But fairer lady, fonder lord,
In happier hall ne'er broke their fast
With sweeter bread, at prouder board.

And then they rose with common will,
And sought the parlor, cool and dim.
"Sing, love!" he said. "The birds grow still,
And wait with me to hear your hymn."
She swept a low, preluding trill--

A spray of sound--across the keys
That felt her fingers for the first;
And then, from simplest cadences,
A reverent melody she nursed,
And gave it voice in words like these: