| |
| A LAUGHING knot of village maids | |
| Goes gaily tripping to the brook, | |
| For water-nymphs they mean to be, | |
| And seek some still, secluded nook. | |
| Here Laura goes, my own delight, | 5 |
| And Colin’s love, the madcap Jane, | |
| And half a score of goddesses | |
| Trip over daisies in the plain: | |
| Already now they loose their hair | |
| And peep from out the tangled gold, | 10 |
| Or speed the flying foot to reach | |
| The brook that ’s only summer-cold; | |
| The lovely locks stream out behind | |
| The shepherdesses on the wing, | |
| And Laura’s is the wealth I love, | 15 |
| And Laura’s is the gold I sing. | |
| A-row upon the bank they pant, | |
| And all unlace the country shoe; | |
| Their fingers tug the garter-knots | |
| To loose the hose of varied hue. | 20 |
| The flashing knee at last appears, | |
| The lower curves of youth and grace, | |
| Whereat the maidens’ eyes do scan | |
| The mazy thickets of the place. | |
| But who ’s to see besides the thrush | 25 |
| Upon the wild crab-apple tree? | |
| Within his branchy haunt he sits— | |
| A very Peeping Tom is he! | |
| Now music bubbles in his throat, | |
| And now he pipes the scene in song— | 30 |
| The virgins slipping from their robes, | |
| The cheated stockings lean and long, | |
| The swift-descending petticoat, | |
| The breasts that heave because they ran, | |
| The rounded arms, the brilliant limbs, | 35 |
| The pretty necklaces of tan. | |
| Did ever amorous god in Greece, | |
| In search of some young mouth to kiss, | |
| By any river chance upon | |
| A sylvan scene as bright as this? | 40 |
| But though each maid is pure and fair, | |
| For one alone my heart I bring, | |
| And Laura’s is the shape I love, | |
| And Laura’s is the snow I sing. | |
| |
| And now upon the brook’s green brink, | 45 |
| A milk-white bevy, lo, they stand, | |
| Half shy, half frighten’d, reaching back | |
| The beauty of a poising hand! | |
| How musical their little screams | |
| When ripples kiss their shrinking feet! | 50 |
| And then the brook embraces all | |
| Till gold and white and water meet! | |
| Within the streamlet’s soft cool arms | |
| Delight and love and gracefulness | |
| Sport till a horde of tiny waves | 55 |
| Swamps all the beds of floating cress: | |
| And on his shining face are seen | |
| Great yellow lilies drifting down | |
| Beyond the ringing apple-tree, | |
| Beyond the empty homespun gown. | 60 |
| Did ever Orpheus with his lute, | |
| When making melody of old, | |
| E’er find a stream in Attica | |
| So ripely full of pink and gold? | |
| At last they climb the sloping bank | 65 |
| And shake upon the thirsty soil | |
| A treasury of diamond-drops | |
| Not gain’d by aught of grimy toil. | |
| Again the garters clasp the hose, | |
| Again the polish’d knee is hid, | 70 |
| Again the breathless babble tells | |
| What Colin said, what Colin did. | |
| In grace upon the grass they lie | |
| And spread their tresses to the sun, | |
| And rival, musical as they, | 75 |
| The blackbird’s alto shake and run. | |
| Did ever Love, on hunting bent, | |
| Come idly humming through the hay, | |
| And, to his sudden joyfulness, | |
| Find fairer game at close of day? | 80 |
| Though every maid ’s a lily-rose, | |
| And meet to sway a sceptred king, | |
| Yet Laura’s is the face I love, | |
| And Laura’s are the lips I sing. | |
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