OF all the spots for making love,
  Give me a shady dairy,
With crimson tiles, and blushing smiles
  From its presiding fairy;
The jolly sunbeams peeping in
  Thro'  vine leaves all a-flutter,
Like greetings sent from Phoebus to
  The Goddess of Fresh Butter.

The swallows twittering in the eaves,
  The air of Summer blowing
Thro' open door from where a score
  Of tall rose-trees are growing,
A distant file of hollyhocks,
  A rugged bush of tansy,
And nearer yet beside the steps
  A gorgeous purple pansy;

Suggestive scents of new-mown hay,
  From lowland meadows coming;
The distant ripple of a stream,
  And drowsy sounds of humming
From able-bodied bees that bevy
  About the morning-glory,
Or dawdle pleasantly around
  The apple-blossoms hoary.

A rosy bloom pervades the spot;
  And where the shadows darkle,
In glittering rows the shining pans
  Show many a brilliant sparkle.
As snowy as my lady's throat,
  Or classic marble urn,
In central floor there proudly stands
  The scourèd white-wood churn.

And she who reigns o'er churn and pan--
  In truth, my friend, between us,
My dimpled Chloe is more fair
  Than Milo's famous Venus.
Mark, mark those eyes so arch and dark,
  Those lips like crimson clover,
And ask yourself, as well you may,
  How I could prove a rover.

Talk not to me of moonlit groves,
  Of empress, belle, or fairy;
To me the fairest love of loves
  Is Chloe of the Dairy.