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Coventry Patmore - The Woodman’s Daughter
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In Gerald`s Cottage by the hill,
              Old Gerald and his child,
              Innocent Maud, dwelt happily;
              He toil`d, and she beguiled
              The long day at her spinning-wheel,
              In the garden now grown wild.
              At Gerald`s stroke the jay awoke;
              Till noon hack follow`d hack,
              Before the nearest hill had time
               To give its echo back;
               And evening mists were in the lane
               Ere Gerald`s arm grew slack.
               Meanwhile, below the scented heaps
               Of honeysuckle flower,
               That made their simple cottage-porch
               A cool, luxurious bower,
               Maud sat beside her spinning-wheel,
               And spun from hour to hour.     
               The growing thread thro` her fingers sped;
               Round flew the polish`d wheel;
               Merrily rang the notes she sang
               At every finish`d reel;
               From the hill again, like a glad refrain,
               Follow`d the rapid peal.
               But all is changed. The rusting axe
               Reddens a wither`d bough;
               A spider spins in the spinning-wheel,
               And Maud sings wildly now;
               And village gossips say she knows
               Grief she may not avow.
               Her secret`s this: In the sweet age
               When heaven`s our side the lark,
               She follow`d her old father, where
               He work`d from dawn to dark,
               For months, to thin the crowded groves
               Of the old manorial Park.
               She fancied and he felt she help`d;
               And, whilst he hack`d and saw`d,
               The rich Squire`s son, a young boy then,
               Whole mornings, as if awed,
               Stood silent by, and gazed in turn
               At Gerald and on Maud.
               And sometimes, in a sullen tone,
               He offer`d fruits, and she
               Received them always with an air
               So unreserved and free,
               That shame-faced distance soon became
               Familiarity.     
               Therefore in time, when Gerald shook
               The woods, no longer coy,
               The young heir and the cottage-girl
               Would steal out to enjoy
               The sound of one another`s talk,
               A simple girl and boy.
               Spring after Spring, they took their walks
               Uncheck`d, unquestion`d; yet
               They learn`d to hide their wanderings
               By wood and rivulet,
               Because they could not give themselves
               A reason why they met.
               Once Maud came weeping back. ‘Poor Child!’
               Was all her father said:
               And he would steady his old hand
               Upon her hapless head,
               And think of her as tranquilly
               As if the child were dead.
               But he is gone: and Maud steals out,
               This gentle day of June;
               And having sobb`d her pain to sleep,
               Help`d by the stream`s soft tune,
               She rests along the willow-trunk,
               Below the calm blue noon.
               The shadow of her shame and her
               Deep in the stream, behold!
               Smiles quake over her parted lips:
               Some thought has made her bold;
               She stoops to dip her fingers in,
               To feel if it be cold.     
               `Tis soft and warm, and runs as `twere
               Perpetually at play:
               But then the stream, she recollects,
               Bears everything away.
               There is a dull pool hard at hand
               That sleeps both night and day.
               She marks the closing weeds that shut
               The water from her sight;
               They stir awhile, but now are still;
               Her arms fall down; the light
               Is horrible, and her countenance
               Is pale as a cloud at night.
               Merrily now from the small church-tower
               Clashes a noisy chime;
               The larks climb up thro` the heavenly blue,
               Carolling as they climb:
               Is it the twisting water-eft
               That dimples the green slime?
               The pool reflects the scarlet West
               With a hot and guilty glow;
               The East is changing ashy pale;
                But Maud will never go
                While those great bubbles struggle up
                From the rotting weeds below.
                The light has changed. A little since
                You scarcely might descry
                The moon, now gleaming sharp and bright,
                From the small cloud slumbering nigh;
                And, one by one, the timid stars
                Step out into the sky.     
                The night blackens the pool; but Maud
                Is constant at her post,
                Sunk in a dread, unnatural sleep,
                Beneath the skiey host
                Of drifting mists, thro` which the moon
                Is riding like a ghost.
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