IN THE AFTERNOON

You in the hammock; and I, near by, Was trying to read, and to swing you, too; And the green of the sward was so kind to the eye, And the shade of the maples so cool and blue, That often I looked from the book to you To say as much, with a sigh. You in the hammock. The book we'd brought From the parlor—to read in the open air,— Something of love and of Launcelot And Guinevere, I believe, was there— But the afternoon, it was far more fair Than the poem was, I thought. You in the hammock; and on and on I droned and droned through the rhythmic stuff— But, with always a half of my vision gone Over the top of the page—enough To caressingly gaze at you, swathed in the fluff Of your hair and your odorous "lawn." You in the hammock—and that was a year— Fully a year ago, I guess— And what do we care for their Guinevere And her Launcelot and their lordliness!— You in the hammock still, and—Yes— Kiss me again, my dear!