Over the Hills and Far Away: Etching

AN armèd cavalier at close of day
Halting his steed beneath a tavern sign,
To drain a measure of the landlord’s wine,
With quip, and toast, and trooper’s roundelay;

The little bar-maid, with her cheeks aflame,
List’ning his wayside wit, the while her feet
Stir idle circles in the dust, and beat
A low response, half pleasure and half shame;

High overhead the trembling aspens whirled
By evening winds, and far o’er dale and down
The highway winding to some happy town,
Across the purple borders of the world!