Up a little road with the morning in my arms,
Drenched with dew and tipsy with the madness of the May,
Leafy fingers on my face, I stop not for your charms!
Love is waiting round the turn, to be my Love to-day.
Shouting as I ride on the springing ringing sod,
Ah! my pony knows the goal to which his course is laid,
Galloping thro' dawn he knows he bears a little god
Bacchus-mad with happiness who burns to meet his maid.