But how many there, would give all its gleams
For the golden light of thy guileless dreams!
Farmer lad, where the herd will drink
Waits a maid that bathes by the brink
Bare brown feet; and the rill, made sweet,
Thrills to touch her who thee would greet.
There is more for thee in the blue of her eye
Than in all the towns that are under the sky.
THE WIFE.
About her fair sweet face, all bright,