And again I feel the pressure of her slender little hand,
As we used to talk together of the future we had planned,--
When I should be a poet, and with nothing else to do
But write the tender verses that she set the music to . . .
Then we should live together in a cozy little cot
Hid in a nest of roses, with a fairy garden spot,
Where the vines were ever fruited, and the weather ever fine,
And the birds were ever singing for that old sweetheart of mine. . .
James Whitcomb Riley
