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| MAUD MULLER, on a summer’s day, | |
| Raked the meadow sweet with hay. | |
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| Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth | |
| Of simple beauty and rustic health. | |
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| Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee | 5 |
| The mock-bird echoed from his tree. | |
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| But, when she glanced to the far-off town, | |
| White from its hill-slope looking down, | |
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| The sweet song died, and a vague unrest | |
| And a nameless longing filled her breast,— | 10 |
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| A wish, that she hardly dared to own, | |
| For something better than she had known. | |
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| The Judge rode slowly down the lane, | |
| Smoothing his horse’s chestnut mane. | |
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| He drew his bridle in the shade | 15 |
| Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid, | |
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| And ask a draught from the spring that flowed | |
| Through the meadow, across the road. | |
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| She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up, | |
| And filled for him her small tin cup, | 20 |
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| And blushed as she gave it, looking down | |
| On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown. | |
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| “Thanks!” said the Judge, “a sweeter draught | |
| From a fairer hand was never quaffed.” | |
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| He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees, | 25 |
| Of the singing birds and the humming bees; | |
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| Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether | |
| The cloud in the west would bring foul weather. | |
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| And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown, | |
| And her graceful ankles, bare and brown, | 30 |
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| And listened, while a pleased surprise | |
| Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes. | |
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| At last, like one who for delay | |
| Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away. | |
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| Maud Muller looked and sighed: “Ah me! | 35 |
| That I the Judge’s bride might be! | |
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| “He would dress me up in silks so fine, | |
| And praise and toast me at his wine. | |
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| “My father should wear a broadcloth coat, | |
| My brother should sail a painted boat. | 40 |
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| “I ’d dress my mother so grand and gay, | |
| And the baby should have a new toy each day. | |
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| “And I ’d feed the hungry and clothe the poor, | |
| And all should bless me who left our door.” | |
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| The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill, | 45 |
| And saw Maud Muller standing still: | |
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| “A form more fair, a face more sweet, | |
| Ne’er hath it been my lot to meet. | |
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| “And her modest answer and graceful air | |
| Show her wise and good as she is fair. | 50 |
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| “Would she were mine, and I to-day, | |
| Like her, a harvester of hay. | |
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| “No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs, | |
| Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues, | |
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| “But low of cattle, and song of birds, | 55 |
| And health, and quiet, and loving words.” | |
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| But he thought of his sister, proud and cold, | |
| And his mother, vain of her rank and gold. | |
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| So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on, | |
| And Maud was left in the field alone. | 60 |
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| But the lawyers smiled that afternoon, | |
| When he hummed in court an old love tune; | |
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| And the young girl mused beside the well, | |
| Till the rain on the unraked clover fell. | |
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| He wedded a wife of richest dower, | 65 |
| Who lived for fashion, as he for power. | |
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| Yet oft, in his marble hearth’s bright glow, | |
| He watched a picture come and go; | |
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| And sweet Maud Muller’s hazel eyes | |
| Looked out in their innocent surprise. | 70 |
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| Oft, when the wine in his glass was red, | |
| He longed for the wayside well instead, | |
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| And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms, | |
| To dream of meadows and clover blooms; | |
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| And the proud man sighed with a secret pain, | 75 |
| “Ah, that I were free again! | |
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| “Free as when I rode that day | |
| Where the barefoot maiden raked the hay.” | |
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| She wedded a man unlearned and poor, | |
| And many children played round her door. | 80 |
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| But care and sorrow, and child-birth pain, | |
| Left their traces on heart and brain. | |
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| And oft, when the summer sun shone hot | |
| On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot, | |
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| And she heard the little spring brook fall | 85 |
| Over the roadside, through the wall, | |
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| In the shade of the apple-tree again | |
| She saw a rider draw his rein, | |
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| And, gazing down with a timid grace, | |
| She felt his pleased eyes read her face. | 90 |
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| Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls | |
| Stretched away into stately halls; | |
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| The weary wheel to a spinnet turned, | |
| The tallow candle an astral burned; | |
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| And for him who sat by the chimney lug, | 95 |
| Dozing and grumbling o’er pipe and mug, | |
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| A manly form at her side she saw, | |
| And joy was duty and love was law. | |
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| Then she took up her burden of life again, | |
| Saying only, “It might have been.” | 100 |
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| Alas for maiden, alas for judge, | |
| For rich repiner and household drudge! | |
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| God pity them both! and pity us all, | |
| Who vainly the dreams of youth recall; | |
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| For of all sad words of tongue or pen, | 105 |
| The saddest are these: “It might have been!” | |
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| Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope lies | |
| Deeply buried from human eyes; | |
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| And, in the hereafter, angels may | |
| Roll the stone from its grave away! | 110 |
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