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!