Three summer's since I chose a maid,
Too young may be - but more's to
At harvest time than bide and woo.
When us was wed she turned
Of love and me and all things human;
Like the shut of a winter's day.
Her smile went out, and 'twasn't a woman-More like a little frightened fay.
One night, in the fall, she runned away."Out 'mong the sheep, her be," they said,
Should properly have been abed;
But sure enough she wasn't
Lying awake with her wide brown stare.
So over seven-acre field and up-along across the
We chased her, flying like a
Before our lanterns.
To Church-town All in a shiver and a
We caught her, fetched her home at
And turned the key upon her fast.
She does the work about the house,
As well as most, but like a mouse:
Happy enough to chat and
With birds and rabbits and such as they,
So long as men-folk keep away."Not near,
Not near," her eyes
When one of us comes within reach.
The women say that beasts in
Look round like children at her call.
I've hardly heard her speak at all.
Shy as a leveret, swift as he,
Straight and slight as a young larch tree,
Sweet as the first wild violets, she,
To her wild self.
But what to me ?
The short days shorten and the oaks are brown,
The blue smoke rises to the low grey sky,
One leaf in the still air falls slowly down,
A magpie's spotted feathers lie On the black earth spread white with rime,
The berries redden up to Christmas- time.
What's Christmas-time without there
Some other in the house but we.
She sleeps up in the attic there Alone, poor maid. 'Tis but a
Betwixt us.
Oh!
My God! the down,
The soft young down of her, the brown,
The brown of her - her eyes, her hair ! her hair !
