MILKING.
163
I am remembering days that are dead,
And a brown little maid in the gloaming,
Milking her cow, with the west burning red
Over waves that about her were foaming.
And a brown little maid in the gloaming,
Milking her cow, with the west burning red
Over waves that about her were foaming.
Up from the sad east the deep shadows gloomed
Out of the distance and found her;
Lightly she sang while the solemn sea boomed
Like a great organ around her.
Out of the distance and found her;
Lightly she sang while the solemn sea boomed
Like a great organ around her.
Under the light-house no sweet-brier grew,
Dry was the grass, and no daisies
Waved in the wind, and the flowers were few
That lifted their delicate faces.
Dry was the grass, and no daisies
Waved in the wind, and the flowers were few
That lifted their delicate faces.
But O, she was happy, and careless, and blest,
Full of the song-sparrow's spirit;
Grateful for life, for the least and the best
Of the blessings that mortals inherit.
Full of the song-sparrow's spirit;
Grateful for life, for the least and the best
Of the blessings that mortals inherit.
Fairer than gardens of Paradise seemed
The desolate spaces of water;
Nature was hers,—clouds that frowned—stars that gleamed,—
What beautiful lessons they taught her!
The desolate spaces of water;
Nature was hers,—clouds that frowned—stars that gleamed,—
What beautiful lessons they taught her!
