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.

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