| |
| THE YEAR stood at its equinox, | |
| And bluff the North was blowing, | |
| A bleat of lambs came from the flocks, | |
| Green hardy things were growing; | |
| I met a maid with shining locks | 5 |
| Where milky kine were lowing. | |
| |
| She wore a kerchief on her neck, | |
| Her bare arm showed its dimple, | |
| Her apron spread without a speck, | |
| Her air was frank and simple. | 10 |
| |
| She milked into a wooden pail, | |
| And sang a country ditty,— | |
| An innocent fond lovers’ tale, | |
| That was not wise or witty, | |
| Pathetically rustical, | 15 |
| Too pointless for the city. | |
| |
| She kept in time without a beat, | |
| As true as church-bell ringers, | |
| Unless she tapped time with her feet, | |
| Or squeezed it with her fingers; | 20 |
| Her clear, unstudied notes were sweet | |
| As many a practised singer’s. | |
| |
| I stood a minute out of sight, | |
| Stood silent for a minute, | |
| To eye the pail and creamy white | 25 |
| The frothing milk within it,— | |
| |
| To eye the comely milking-maid, | |
| Herself so fresh and creamy. | |
| “Good day to you!” at last I said; | |
| She turned her head to see me. | 30 |
| “Good day!” she said, with lifted head; | |
| Her eyes looked soft and dreamy. | |
| |
| And all the while she milked and milked | |
| The grave cow heavy-laden: | |
| I ’ve seen grand ladies, plumed and silked, | 35 |
| But not a sweeter maiden; | |
| |
| But not a sweeter, fresher maid | |
| Than this in homely cotton, | |
| Whose pleasant face and silky braid | |
| I have not yet forgotten. | 40 |
| |
| Seven springs have passed since then, as I | |
| Count with a sober sorrow; | |
| Seven springs have come and passed me by, | |
| And spring sets in to-morrow. | |
| |
| I ’ve half a mind to shake myself | 45 |
| Free, just for once, from London, | |
| To set my work upon the shelf, | |
| And leave it done or undone; | |
| |
| To run down by the early train, | |
| Whirl down with shriek and whistle, | 50 |
| And feel the bluff north glow again, | |
| And mark the sprouting thistle | |
| Set up on waste patch of the lane | |
| Its green and tender bristle; | |
| |
| And spy the scarce-blown violet banks, | 55 |
| Crisp primrose-leaves and others, | |
| And watch the lambs leap at their pranks, | |
| And butt their patient mothers. | |
| |
| Alas! one point in all my plan | |
| My serious thoughts demur to: | 60 |
| Seven years have passed for maid and man, | |
| Seven years have passed for her too. | |
| |
| Perhaps my rose is over-blown, | |
| Not rosy, or too rosy; | |
| Perhaps in farm-house of her own | 65 |
| Some husband keeps her cosy, | |
| Where I should show a face unknown,— | |
| Good-bye, my wayside posy! | |
| |
