Lovers Lane is a beautiful winding street immortalized by poet Eugene Field from the poem “Lovers Lane, Saint Jo.”
The site of many fine homes today, Lover’s Lane was a remote country lane when Eugene Field courted his futurewife, Julia Comstock in a horse and buggy. A monument on Lover’s Lane commemorates Eugene Field and is located at the interection of Northwest Parkway and Lovers Lane.
Lover’s Lane, St. Jo
by Eugene Field (1850-1895)
Saint Jo, Buchanan County,
Is leagues and leagues away;
And I sit in the gloom of this rented room,
And pine to be there to-day.
Yes, with London fog around me
And the bustling to and fro,
I am fretting to be across the sea
In Lover’s Lane, Saint Jo.
I would have a brown-eyed maiden
Go driving once again;
And I ‘d sing the song, as we snailed along,
That I sung to that maiden then:
I purposely say, “as we snailed along,”
For a proper horse goes slow
In those leafy aisles, where Cupid smiles,
In Lover’s Lane, Saint Jo.
From her boudoir in the alders
Would peep a lynx-eyed thrush,
And we ‘d hear her say, in a furtive way,
To the noisy cricket, “Hush!”
To think that the curious creature
Should crane her neck to know
The various things one says and sings
In Lover’s Lane, Saint Jo.
But the maples they should shield us
From the gossips of the place;
Nor should the sun, except by pun,
Profane the maiden’s face;
And the girl should do the driving,
For a fellow can’t, you know,
Unless he ‘s neglectful of what ‘s quite respectful
In Lover’s Lane, Saint Jo.
Ah! sweet the hours of springtime,
When the heart inclines to woo,
And it ‘s deemed all right for the callow wight
To do what he wants to do;
But cruel the age of winter,
When the way of the world says no
To the hoary men who would woo again
In Lover’s Lane, Saint Jo!
In the Union Bank of London
Are forty pounds or more,
Which I ‘m like to spend, ere the month shall end,
In an antiquarian store;
But I ‘d give it all, and gladly,
If for an hour or so
I could feel the grace of a distant place,—
Of Lover’s Lane, Saint Jo.
Let us sit awhile, beloved,
And dream of the good old days,—
Of the kindly shade which the maples made
Round the stanch but squeaky chaise;
With your head upon my shoulder,
And my arm about you so,
Though exiles, we shall seem to be
In Lover’s Lane, Saint Jo.
