IN FRENCH FIELDS.
223
Sonnet.—LA LAITIÈRE.
La Jeanne, my milkmaid, in her heart has springs
Of smiles, that bubble to her lips of right;
Her eye is large, and her corset is tight,
The bust has split the stuffs—coarse, home-made things.
I see her when at mornings first she rings,
Like a Dutch picture kneaded out of light,
A breath of pasture-grounds with daisies bright
Flows with her steps, as in the milk she brings.
She glides as skims a bird, her speech is song;
She gives her heart at once, no art she knows;
To what may one compare her without wrong?
Wild-flowers perhaps, or wood-fruits that enclose,
In tissues rough, abundant sap and strong,
And unknown perfumes sweeter than the rose.
