And oft in ramblings on the wold, And full at heart of trembling hope, The deep brook groan'd beneath the mill; Sometimes I saw you sit and spin; And the long shadow of the chair Flitted across into the night, And all the casement darken'd there. But when at last I dared to speak, The lanes, you know, were white with may, Your ripe lips moved not, but your cheek Flush'd like the coming of the day; And so it was You would, and would not, little one! Although I pleaded tenderly, And you and I were all alone. And slowly was my mother brought I might have look'd a little higher; too young to wed: "Yet must I love her for your sake; Go fetch your Alice here," she said: Her eyelid quiver'd as she spake. And down I went to fetch my bride: I knew you could not look but well; And dews, that would have fall'n in tears, I kiss'd away before they fell. I watch'd the little flutterings, The doubt my mother would not see; She spoke at large of many things, And at the last she spoke of me; And turning look'd upon your face, As near this door you sat apart, And rose, and, with a silent grace Approaching, press'd you heart to heart. Ah, well but sing the foolish song I gave you, Alice, on the day When, arm in arm, we went along, A pensive pair, and you were gay With bridal flowers that I may seem, As in the nights of old, to lie Beside the mill-wheel in the stream, While those full chestnuts whisper by. It is the miller's daughter, And she is grown so dear, so dear, That trembles at her ear: For hid in ringlets day and night, I'd touch her neck so warm and white. And I would be the girdle About her dainty dainty waist, And her heart would beat against me, In sorrow and in rest: And I should know if it beat right, I'd clasp it round so close and tight. And I would be the necklace, With her laughter or her sighs, I scarce should be unclasp'd at night. A trifle, sweet! which true love spells - For all the spirit is his own. And now those vivid hours are gone, Love that hath us in the net, Many a chance the years beget. Love is hurt with jar and fret. Eyes with idle tears are wet. Look thro' mine eyes with thine. True wife, Round my true heart thine arms entwine; My other dearer life in life, Look thro' my very soul with thine! Untouch'd with any shade of years, May those kind eyes forever dwell! They have not shed a many tears, Dear eyes, since first I knew them well. Yet tears they shed: they had their part Became an outward breathing type, And left a want unknown before; Although the loss that brought us pain, That loss but made us love the more, With farther lookings on. The kiss, The comfort, I have found in thee: But that God bless thee, dear- who wrought Two spirits to one equal mind With blessings beyond hope or thought, Arise, and let us wander forth, To yon old mill across the wolds; FATIMA. O LOVE, Love, Love! O withering might! Last night I wasted hateful hours I thirsted for the brooks, the showers: I roll'd among the tender flowers: I crush'd them on my breast, my mouth: Last night, when some one spoke his name, From my swift blood that went and came A thousand little shafts of flame Were shiver'd in my narrow frame. O Love, O fire! once he drew |