 | [Poems by Cary in] The poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary |  |
THE MILL-MAID.
Now comb her golden hair away;
Meekly and sorrow-laden
She waited for the closing day—
Poor broken-hearted maiden!
The ring from off her finger slip,
And fold her hands together;
No more love's music on her lip
Will tremble like a feather.
Meekly and sorrow-laden
She waited for the closing day—
Poor broken-hearted maiden!
The ring from off her finger slip,
And fold her hands together;
No more love's music on her lip
Will tremble like a feather.
Each Sabbath-time along the aisle
Her step more faintly sounded,
The light grew paler in her smile,
Her cheek less softly rounded;
But never sank we in despair
Till with that fearful crying,
“The mill-maid of the golden hair
And lily hand is dying!”
Her step more faintly sounded,
The light grew paler in her smile,
Her cheek less softly rounded;
72
Till with that fearful crying,
“The mill-maid of the golden hair
And lily hand is dying!”
When the dim shadows of the birch
Above her rest are swaying,
The pastor of the village church
Shall bless the place with praying:
Deeming the voiceless sacrifice
A loved and lovely blossom,
Blown by the winds of Paradise
To Jesu's folding bosom.
Above her rest are swaying,
The pastor of the village church
Shall bless the place with praying:
Deeming the voiceless sacrifice
A loved and lovely blossom,
Blown by the winds of Paradise
To Jesu's folding bosom.
The mill-wheel for a day is still,
The spindle silent lying,
The little homestead on the hill
Looks sadder for her dying;
But ere the third time in the spire
The Sabbath bell is ringing,
Not one of all the village choir
Will miss the mill-maid's singing.
The spindle silent lying,
The little homestead on the hill
Looks sadder for her dying;
But ere the third time in the spire
The Sabbath bell is ringing,
Not one of all the village choir
Will miss the mill-maid's singing.
| [Poems by Cary in] The poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary | |