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.
