From the clear pool her face had fled;
It rested on my heart instead,
Reflected when the maid was gone.
With happy youth, and work content,
So sweet and stately on she went,
Right careless of the untold tale.
Each step she took I loved her more,
And followed to her dairy door
The maiden with the milking-pail.
II.
For hearts where wakened love doth lurk,
How fine, how blest a thing is work!
For work does good when reasons fail--
Good; yet the axe at every stroke
The echo of a name awoke--
Her name is Mary Martindale.
I'm glad that echo was not heard
Aright by other men: a bird
Knows doubtless what his own notes tell;
And I know not, but I can say
I felt as shame-faced all that day
As if folks heard her name right well.
And when the west began to glow
I went--I could not choose but go--
To that same dairy on the hill;
And while sweet Mary moved about
Within, I came to her without.
And leaned upon the window-sill.
The garden border where I stood
Was sweet with pinks and southernwood.
I spoke--her answer seemed to fail:
I smelt the pinks--I could not see;
The dusk came down and sheltered me,
And in the dusk she heard my tale.
And what is left that I should tell?
I begged a kiss, I pleaded well:
The rosebud lips did long decline;
But yet I think, I think 'tis true,
That, leaned at last into the dew,
One little instant they were mine.
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