The Milkmaid
Under a daisied bankThere stands a rich red ruminating cow,And hard against her flankA cotton-hooded milkmaid bends her brow.
The flowery river-oozeUpheaves and falls; the milk purrs in the pail;Few pilgrims but would chooseThe 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 dwellOn visual and familiar things like these;What moves her is the spellOf inner themes and inner poetries:
Could but by Sunday mornHer gay new gown come, meads might dry to dun,Trains shriek till ears were torn,If Fred would not prefer that Other One.
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