The Collected Poems of T. E. Brown

At Malmsmead, by the river side
I met a little lady,
And, as she passed, she sang a song
That was not Tate or Brady,
Or any song by art contrived
Of minstrel or of poet,
For baron's hall, or chanter's desk;
And yet I seemed to know it.
Good sooth! I think the song was mine—
The all unthinking sadness—
She read it from my longing eyes,
And gave it back in gladness.

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And yet it was a challenge too,
As plain as she could make it,
So petulant, so innocent,
And yet I could not take it.
A breath, a gleam, and she is gone—
Just half a minute only—
So die the breaths, so fade the gleams,
And we are left so lonely.

University of Virginia Library

II

[At Malmsmead, by the river side]