Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether
Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid,
And many children played round her door.
And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown
Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes.
From a fairer hand was never quaffed."
Maud Muller looked and sighed: "Ah me!
And blushed as she gave it, looking down
"A form more fair, a face more sweet,
Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues,
Saying only, "It might have been."
"Ah, that I were free again!
And the baby should have a new toy each day.
"And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor,
At last, like one who for delay
The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill,
"My father should wear a broadcloth coat;
But when she glanced to the far-off town
And for him who sat by the chimney lug,
She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up,
Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay."
On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown.
And health and quiet and loving words."
A wish that she hardly dared to own,
Show her wise and good as she is fair.
Maud Muller on a summer's day
Oft, when the wine in his glass was red,
So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on,
To dream of meadows and clover-blooms.
And oft, when the summer sun shone hot
Roll the stone from its grave away!
Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away.
And joy was duty and love was law.
But the lawyers smiled that afternoon,
She felt his pleased eyes read her face.
And all should bless me who left our door."
Who lived for fashion, as he for power.
When he hummed in court an old love-tune;
He drew his bridle in the shade
A manly form at her side she saw,
Stretched away into stately halls;
And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms
The sweet song died, and a vague unrest
And she heard the little spring brook fall
Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane.
That I the Judge's bride might be!
And the proud man sighed, and with a secret pain,
"But low of cattle and song of birds,
"Would she were mine, and I to-day,
"He would dress me up in silks so fine,
The tallow candle an astral burned,
Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow,
Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee
Left their traces on heart and brain.
Then she took up her burden of life again,
Over the roadside, through a wall,
Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug,
The saddest are these: "It might have been!"
For of all sad words of tongue or pen,
And asked a draught from the spring that flowed
My brother should sail a pointed boat.
The Judge rode slowly down the lane,
For something better than she had known.
On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot,
Till the rain on the unraked clover fell.
And filled for him her small tin cup,
White from its hill-slope looking down,
The cloud in the west would bring foul weather.
For rich repiner and household drudge!
The mock-bird echoed from his tree.
She wedded a man unlearned and poor,
"I'd dress my mother so grand and gay,
He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees,
Like her, a harvester of hay.
And his mother, vain of her rank and gold.
And listened, while a pleased surprise
And praise and toast me at his wine.
In the shade of the apple-tree again
He longed for the wayside well instead;
Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls
Of the singing birds and the humming bees;
"Free as when I rode that day,
He wedded a wife of richest dower,
And her graceful ankles bare and brown;
Alas for the maiden, alas for the Judge,
Raked the meadow sweet with hay.
And saw Maud Muller standing still.
God pity them both and pity us all,
Deeply buried from human eyes;
"No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs,
And, gazing down with timid grace,
But care and sorrow, and childbirth pain,
"Thanks!" said the Judge; "a sweeter draught
And the young girl mused beside the well
Of simple beauty and rustic health.
Who vainly the dreams of youth recall.
She saw a rider draw his rein;
He watched a picture come and go;
Looked out in their innocent surprise.
Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth
Through the meadow across the road.
And Maud was left in the field alone.
And, in the hereafter, angels may
"And her modest answer and graceful air
But he thought of his sisters, proud and cold,
And sweet Maud Muller's hazel eyes
The weary wheel to a spinet turned,
And a nameless longing filled her breast,-
Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet.
Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope lies