A Farm Walk
The year stood at its equinoxAnd bluff the North was blowing,A bleat of lambs came from the flocks,Green hardy things were growing;I met a maid with shining locksWhere 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 pailAnd sang a country ditty,An innocent fond lovers’ tale,That was not wise nor witty,Pathetically rustical,Too pointless for the city.
She kept in time without a beatAs true as church-bell ringers,Unless she tapped time with her feet,Or squeezed it with her fingers; 20Her clear unstudied notes were sweetAs many a practised singer’s.
I stood a minute out of sight,Stood silent for a minuteTo eye the pail, and creamy whiteThe frothing milk within it;
To eye the comely milking maidHerself 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 milkedThe grave cow heavy-laden:I’ve seen grand ladies plumed and silked,But not a sweeter maiden;
But not a sweeter fresher maidThan this in homely cotton,Whose pleasant face and silky braidI have not yet forgotten. 40
Seven springs have passed since then, as ICount 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 myselfFree just for once from London,To set my work upon the shelfAnd leave it done or undone;
To run down by the early train,Whirl down with shriek and whistle, 50And feel the bluff North blow again,And mark the sprouting thistleSet up on waste patch of the laneIts green and tender bristle.
And spy the scarce-blown violet banks,Crisp primrose leaves and others,And watch the lambs leap at their pranksAnd butt their patient mothers.
Alas, one point in all my planMy serious thoughts demur to: 60Seven years have passed for maid and man,Seven years have passed for her too;
Perhaps my rose is overblown,Not rosy or too rosy;Perhaps in farmhouse of her ownSome husband keeps her cosy,Where I should show a face unknown.Good-bye, my wayside posy.