I plodded to Fairmile Hill-top, where
A maiden one fain would guard
From every hazard and every care
Advanced on the roadside sward.
I wondered how succeeding suns
Would shape her wayfarings,
And wished some Power might take such ones
Under Its warding wings.
The busy breeze came up the hill
And smartened her cheek to red,
And frizzled her hair to a haze. With a will
“Good-morning, my Dear!” I said.
She glanced from me to the far-off gray,
And, with proud severity,
“Good-morning to you—though I may say
I am not your Dear,” quoth she:
“For I am the Dear of one not here—
One far from his native land!”—
And she passed me by; and I did not try
To make her understand.
1901
ONE WE KNEW
(M. H. 1772–1857)
She told how they used to form for the country dances—
“The Triumph,” “The New-rigged Ship”—
To the light of the guttering wax in the panelled manses,
And in cots to the blink of a dip.
She spoke of the wild “poussetting” and “allemanding”
On carpet, on oak, and on sod;
And the two long rows of ladies and gentlemen standing,
And the figures the couples trod.
She showed us the spot where the maypole was yearly planted,
And where the bandsmen stood
While breeched and kerchiefed partners whirled, and panted
To choose each other for good.