The Milkmaid

Under a daisied bank     There stands a rich red ruminating cow,      And hard against her flank     A cotton-hooded milkmaid bends her brow.      The flowery river-ooze     Upheaves and falls; the milk purrs in the pail;      Few pilgrims but would choose     The peace of such a life in such a vale.      The maid breathes words - to vent,     It seems, her sense of Nature's scenery,      Of whose life, sentiment,     And essence, very part itself is she.      She bends a glance of pain,     And, at a moment, lets escape a tear;      Is it that passing train,     Whose alien whirr offends her country ear? -      Nay! Phyllis does not dwell     On visual and familiar things like these;      What moves her is the spell     Of inner themes and inner poetries:      Could but by Sunday morn     Her gay new gown come, meads might dry to dun,      Trains shriek till ears were torn,     If Fred would not prefer that Other One.