THE MILKMAID

Under a daisied bank

There stands a rich red ruminating cow,

And hard against her flank

A cotton-hooded milkmaid bends her brow.

The flowery river-ooze

Upheaves and falls; the milk purrs in the pail;

Few pilgrims but would choose

The peace of such a life in such a vale.

The maid breathes words — to vent,

It seems, her sense of Nature's scenery,

Of whose life, sentiment,

And essence, very part itself is she.

She bends a glance of pain,

And, at a moment, lets escape a tear;

Is it that passing train,

Whose alien whirr offends her country ear? -

Nay! Phyllis does not dwell

On visual and familiar things like these;

What moves her is the spell

Of inner themes and inner poetries:

Could but by Sunday morn

Her gay new gown come, meads might dry to dun,

Trains shriek till ears were torn,

If Fred would not prefer that Other One.