Maud Muller

Maud Muller on a summers day,     Raked the meadow sweet with hay.     Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth     Of simple beauty and rustic health.     Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee     The mock-bird echoed from his tree.     But when she glanced to the far-off town,     White from its hill-slope looking down,     The sweet song died, and a vague unrest     And a nameless longing filled her breast,     A wish, that she hardly dared to own,     For something better than she had known.     The Judge rode slowly down the lane,     Smoothing his horses chestnut mane.     He drew his bridle in the shade     Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid,     And asked a draught from the spring that flowed     Through the meadow across the road.     She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up,     And filled for him her small tin cup,     And blushed as she gave it, looking down     On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown.     Thanks! said the Judge; a sweeter draught     From a fairer hand was never quaffed.     He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees,     Of the singing birds and the humming bees;     Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether     The cloud in the west would bring foul weather.     And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown,     And her graceful ankles bare and brown;     And listened, while a pleased surprise     Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes.     At last, like one who for delay     Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away.     Maud Muller looked and sighed: Ah me!     That I the Judges bride might be!     He would dress me up in silks so fine,     And praise and toast me at his wine.     My father should wear a broadcloth coat;     My brother should sail a painted boat.     Id dress my mother so grand and gay,     And the baby should have a new toy each day.     And Id feed the hungry and clothe the poor,     And all should bless me who left our door.     The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill,     And saw Maud Muller standing still.     A form more fair, a face more sweet,     Neer hath it been my lot to meet.     And her modest answer and graceful air     Show her wise and good as she is fair.     Would she were mine, and I to-day,     Like her, a harvester of hay:     No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs,     Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues,     But low of cattle and song of birds,     And health and quiet and loving words.     But he thought of his sisters, proud and cold,     And his mother, vain of her rank and gold.     So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on,     And Maud was left in the field alone.     But the lawyers smiled that afternoon,     When he hummed in court an old love-tune;     And the young girl mused beside the well     Till the rain on the unraked clover fell.     He wedded a wife of richest dower,     Who lived for fashion, as he for power.     Yet oft, in his marble hearths bright glow,     He watched a picture come and go;     And sweet Maud Mullers hazel eyes     Looked out in their innocent surprise.     Oft, when the wine in his glass was red,     He longed for the wayside well instead;     And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms     To dream of meadows and clover-blooms.     And the proud man sighed, with a secret pain,     Ah, that I were free again!     Free as when I rode that day,     Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay.     She wedded a man unlearned and poor,     And many children played round her door.     But care and sorrow, and childbirth pain,     Left their traces on heart and brain.     And oft, when the summer sun shone hot     On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot,     And she heard the little spring brook fall     Over the roadside, through the wall,     In the shade of the apple-tree again     She saw a rider draw his rein.     And, gazing down with timid grace,     She felt his pleased eyes read her face.     Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls     Stretched away into stately halls;     The weary wheel to a spinnet turned,     The tallow candle an astral burned,     And for him who sat by the chimney lug,     Dozing and grumbling oer pipe and mug,     A manly form at her side she saw,     And joy was duty and love was law.     Then she took up her burden of life again,     Saying only, It might have been.     Alas for maiden, alas for Judge,     For rich repiner and household drudge!     God pity them both! and pity us all,     Who vainly the dreams of youth recall.     For of all sad words of tongue or pen,     The saddest are these: It might have been!     Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope lies     Deeply buried from human eyes;     And, in the hereafter, angels may     Roll the stone from its grave away!