I stood a minute out of sight, To eye the pail, and creamy white To eye the comely milking maid She turned her head to see me : Good day," she said with lifted head; And all the while she milked and milked I've seen grand ladies plumed and silked, But not a sweeter fresher maid I have not yet forgotten. Seven springs have passed since then, as I Count with a sober sorrow; Seven springs have come and passed me by, And spring sets in to-morrow. I've half a mind to shake myself And leave it done or undone ; To run down by the early train, Whirl down with shriek and whistle, And feel the bluff North blow again, And mark the sprouting thistle Set up on waste patch of the lane Its green and tender bristle, And spy the scarce-blown violet banks, Alas, one point in all my plan My serious thoughts demur to: Seven years have passed for maid and man, Seven years have passed for her too; Perhaps my rose is overblown, Not rosy or too rosy; Perhaps in farmhouse of her own Some husband keeps her cosy, Where I should show a face unknown. Good-bye, my wayside posy. A PORTRAIT. I. SHE gave up beauty in her tender youth, Gave all her hope and joy and pleasant ways; Harsh towards herself, towards others full of ruth, Long prayers and fasts trenched on her nights and days: She schooled herself to sights and sounds uncouth Her wants; her own self learned she to forsake, II. They knelt in silent anguish by her bed, And could not weep; but calmly there she lay, All pain had left her; and the sun's last ray Shone through upon her, warming into red The shady curtains. In her heart she said: "Heaven opens; I leave these and go away; The Bridegroom calls,-shall the Bride seek to stay?" Then low upon her breast she bowed her head. O lily flower, O gem of priceless worth, O dove with patient voice and patient eyes, O fruitful vine amid a land of dearth, O maid replete with loving purities, Thou bowedst down thy head with friends on earth To raise it with the saints in Paradise. WHY BY THE SEA. does the sea moan evermore? Shut out from heaven it makes its moan, It frets against the boundary shore; All earth's full rivers cannot fill The sea, that drinking thirsteth still. Sheer miracles of loveliness Lie hid in its unlooked-on bed : Anemones, salt, passionless, Blow flower-like; just enough alive Shells quaint with curve, or spot, or spike, All fair alike, yet all unlike, Are born without a pang, and die O GONE FOR EVER. HAPPY rosebud blooming Nay, thou art too presuming; Thy faded charms shall be, O happy skylark springing Up to the broad blue sky, Thou also soon shalt lie Where no sweet notes are ringing. And through life's shine and shower. But in the summer bower, And at the morning hour, We still shall look in vain I LOVE FROM THE NORTH. HAD a love in soft south land, Beloved through April far in May; He waited on my lightest breath, |