The Farmer's Bride

THREE Summers since I chose a maid,Too young maybe—but more's to doAt harvest-time than bide and woo.When us was wed she turned afraidOf 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 thereLying awake with her wide brown stare.So over seven-acre field and up-along across the downWe chased her, flying like a hareBefore our lanterns. To Church-TownAll in a shiver and a scareWe caught her, fetched her home at lastAnd turned the key upon her, fast.

She does the work about the houseAs well as most, but like a mouse:Happy enough to chat and playWith birds and rabbits and such as they,So long as men-folk keep away."Not near, not near!" her eyes beseechWhen one of us comes within reach.The women say that beasts in stallLook 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 lieOn the black earth spread white with rime,The berries redden up to Christmas-time.What's Christmas-time without there beSome other in the house than we!

She sleeps up in the attic thereAlone, poor maid. 'Tis but a stairBetwixt us. Oh! my God! the down,The soft young down of her, the brown,The brown of her—her eyes, her hair, her hair!