I

   One mile more is

   Where your door is

      Mother mine!—

   Harvest’s coming,

   Mills are strumming,

      Apples fine,

And the cider made to-year will be as wine.

II

   Yet, not viewing

   What’s a-doing

      Here around

   Is it thrills me,

   And so fills me

      That I bound

Like a ball or leaf or lamb along the ground.

III

   Tremble not now

   At your lot now,

      Silly soul!

   Hosts have sped them

   Quick to wed them,

      Great and small,

Since the first two sighing half-hearts made a whole.

IV

   Yet I wonder,

   Will it sunder

      Her from me?

   Will she guess that

   I said “Yes,”—that

      His I’d be,

Ere I thought she might not see him as I see!

V

   Old brown gable,

   Granary, stable,

      Here you are!

   O my mother,

   Can another

      Ever bar

Mine from thy heart, make thy nearness seem afar?