Joan o' the Wad

Joan o' the Wad from her own folk goes
With a garland woven of gipsy-rose; 
The palms of her hands and the palms of her feet 
Are dark with the stain of bitter-sweet. 
Here and there in her tresses brown 
Tosses a feather of thistle-down: 
About her waist for a girdle green 
She has threaded buds of the argentine. 

Between her breasts for a posy fair,
She has set a handful of maidenhair; 
About her neck for a torque of gold 
A chain of buttercups, fold on fold 
She has bound and wound; and she looks like spring — 
Joan o' the Wad gone wandering 
From the wild brown moor to the deep-walled town, 
Joan o' the Wad in her lime-green gown. 

The apple-bird on the apple-bough 
Whistles with no one to fret him now, 
With cry and chirrup more shrill and clear 
Than his own love-song in the spring o' the year. 
The laden bees going back to the hive 
Joan o' the Wad no more will drive: 
The peach grows red and the pear grows dun, 
With none to cover them up from the sun. 

She has left the cattle unmilked in chall; 
And the miners laugh as they go to bal. 
No more afraid of her pisky eyes 
Where life like the lightning comes and dies — 
And sorrow moves like a leaf, astir 
In a pool where the wind has drownéd her; 
And laughter leaps as the bubbles come 
On fishless ponds covered thick with scum. 

But lads at twilight are fain to hear 
A soft word said in their listening ear; 
And fain to see what they see no more — 
A green gown gleam by the stable-door. 
For towns are many and towns are full; 
But here in the country the water's cool, 
And honey's sweet and the hearts are deep. 
And the Pisky-loves are the loves to keep.