REFLECTIONS LOOKING OVER A GATE AT A POOL IN A FIELD I What change has made the pastures sweet And reached the daisies at my feet, And cloud that wears a golden hem? This lovely world, the hills, the sward— They all look fresh, as if our Lord But yesterday had finished them. And here's the field with light aglow; And how its wet leaves trembling shine! Between their trunks come through to me The morning sparkles of the sca Below the level browsing line. I see the pool more clear by half Up at the breasts of coot and rail. A maiden with a milking-pail. Like some fair sloop appeared to sail. Against her ankles as she trod I leaned upon the gate to see: The sweet thing looked, but did not speak; A dimple came in either cheek, And all my heart was gone from me. Then, as I lingered on the gate, And she came up like coming fate, I saw my picture in her eyes Clear dancing eyes, more black than sloes, Cheeks like the mountain pink, that grows Among white-headed majesties. I said, "A tale was made of old Ah! let me - let me tell the tale." But high she held her comely head; She laughed. What good to make ado? Reflected when the maid was gone. With happy youth, and work content, Right careless of the untold tale. The maiden with the milking-pail. For hearts where wakened love doth lurk, Her name is Mary Martindale. I'm glad that echo was not heard Knows doubtless what his own notes tell; And I know not; but I can say I felt as shame-faced all that day And when the west began to glow And leaned upon the window-sill. The garden border where I stood Was sweet with pinks and southern-wood. I spoke her answer seemed to fail; I smelt the pinks—I could not see; The dusk came down and sheltered me, And in the dusk she heard my tale. And what is left that I should tell? One little instant they were mine. O life! how dear thou hast become: But evening counsels best prevail. THE LONG WHITE SEAM As I came round the harbour buoy, No wave the land-locked water stirred, And I marked my love by candle-light It's aye sewing ashore, my dear, It's reef and furl, and haul the line, I climbed to reach her cottage door; Like a shaft of light her voice breaks forth, As the shining water leaped of old, Aye longing to list anew, Awake and in my dream, But never a song she sang like this, Fair fall the lights, the harbour lights, And peace drop down on that low roof And the voice, my dear, that rang so clear, For O, for O, with brows bent low By the candle's flickering gleam, |