MATTHEW ARNOLD
At some lone homestead in the Cumner hills, Where at her open door the housewife darns,
Thou hast been seen, or hanging on a gate To watch the threshers in the mossy barns.
Children, who early range these slopes and late
For cresses from the rills, Have known thee watching, all an April day,
The springing pastures and the feeding kine;
And mark'd thee, when the stars come out and shine, Through the long dewy grass move slow away.
In autumn, on the skirts of Bagley Wood,
Where most the Gipsies by the turf-edged way
Pitch their smoked tents, and every bush you see With scarlet patches tagged and shreds of gray,
Above the forest-ground calPd Thessaly
The blackbird picking food Sees thee, nor stops his meal, nor fears at all ;
So often has he known thee past him stray
Rapt, twirling in thy hand a withcr'd spray, And waiting for the spark from Heaven to fall.
And once, in winter, on the causeway chill
Where home through flooded fields foot-travellers go,
Have I not pass'd thee on the wooden bridge Wrapt in thy cloak and battling with the snow, Thy face towards Hmksey and its wintry ridge?
And thou hast chmb'd the hill And gain'd the white brow of the Cumner range; Turn'd once to watch, while thick the snowflakes fall, The lines of festal light in Christ Church hall Then sought thy straw in some sequester'd grange.
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