The sky is clear, the trees are green;
His steps keep pace with hers
Along the yellow road between
Converging lines of firs.
They may be three or four years old.
Their caps are red and blue;
For years this charming image sold
A brand of children’s shoe.
One way. They trundle, arms conjoint,
With half an Eden each,
Towards that final focal point
They will not have to reach.