Sir Philip

By John Grosvenor Wilson

One morn the prairie reached afar,
A sea of golden harvest fields,
It was the hour when twilight yields
Her misty mail of moon and star.

Light rosy clouds sailed far away,
The dewy corn just faintly stirred,
And here and there some waking bird
Piped out his little roundelay.

Adown the level country road
A gentle wind did scarcely blow,
And all was very still, when lo,
Came Philip with his market-load.

He eyed the farm-house o'er and o'er,
And thought of her who slept within;
From such light chance doth love begin,
Haply forever to endure.

And as he rubbed his sunburnt brow
The imp that round each lover flits,
To warm his heart and fire his wits,
Said slily, -- Let her hear you now.

Beneath her window did he stand,
Gallant as errant knight of old,
Though on his breast there gleamed no gold,
Nor lance nor sabre in his hand.

He sang an old familiar song,
Of simple words and simple strain,
Half-sad, half-glad the low refrain,
Perchance the notes were something wrong;

He heard her window softly slide,
He saw her sleep-bewildered eyes,
He caught her look of shy surprise,
Her gesture marked with pretty pride,

And off he ran. The kindling morn
Lit more and more the laughing land.
Small happy breezes hand-in-hand
Went chattering o'er the billowy corn,

Ah, ever blooms the old romance,
In wood, or wild, or western plain,
As under stately groves of Spain,
Or in the sunny fields of France,

O Youth and Love! O Love and Youth!
Twin suns that light the wastes of Time!
You put to blush the cynic's rhyme,
You are the sweet eternal truth.