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. 

-o0o-