 | Poems at Home and Abroad |  |
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The Sorrow of the May
When the pearl breaks into star, and the star breaks into rose,
And the hawthorn scent is heavy on the fragrant June-tide air,
My eyes forget their seeing, and my heart renews its woes
For I think of that old thorn-time when first I met my fair.
And the hawthorn scent is heavy on the fragrant June-tide air,
My eyes forget their seeing, and my heart renews its woes
For I think of that old thorn-time when first I met my fair.
How simply was she dressed in her petticoat of blue
And her rosy pink sun-bonnet! She was Grasmere's sweetest lass,
And the face of her was open and the eyes of her were true,
And her milk-pail swung beside her, as she moved to let me pass.
And her rosy pink sun-bonnet! She was Grasmere's sweetest lass,
And the face of her was open and the eyes of her were true,
And her milk-pail swung beside her, as she moved to let me pass.
I was fain to bear the milk-pail, the flush was in her face
As I took it bravely from her, and I touched her tender hand,
And I broke a white May-blossom, and she wore it with such grace
That she seemed no village maiden but a lady of the land.
As I took it bravely from her, and I touched her tender hand,
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That she seemed no village maiden but a lady of the land.
We were wed within the year, and when now a second time
The pearls had broke to starlight and the rose was on the thorn,
So proud to be a mother, she was dying in her prime,
Only lived to kiss her darling when our little May was born.
The pearls had broke to starlight and the rose was on the thorn,
So proud to be a mother, she was dying in her prime,
Only lived to kiss her darling when our little May was born.
Now each year beneath Stone-Arthur when the May-blossom is white
And the hawthorn scent is heavy on the meadows in the dale,
I forget the sheep I counted, and my eyes forget their sight,
For I see the lass who loved me, with her shining milking-pail.
And the hawthorn scent is heavy on the meadows in the dale,
I forget the sheep I counted, and my eyes forget their sight,
For I see the lass who loved me, with her shining milking-pail.
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