Christina Rossetti

The year stood at its equinox
    And bluff the North was blowing,
A bleat of lambs came from the flocks,
    Green hardy things were growing;
I met a maid with shining locks
    Where milky kine were lowing.

She wore a kerchief on her neck,
    Her bare arm showed its dimple,
Her apron spread without a speck,
    Her air was frank and simple.

She milked into a wooden pail
    And sang a country ditty,
An innocent fond lovers' tale,
    That was not wise nor witty,
Pathetically rustical,
    Too pointless for the city.

She kept in time without a beat
    As true as church-bell ringers,
Unless she tapped time with her feet,
    Or squeezed it with her fingers;
Her clear unstudied notes were sweet
    As many a practised singer's.

I stood a minute out of sight,
    Stood silent for a minute
To eye the pail, and creamy white
    The frothing milk within it;

To eye the comely milking maid
    Herself so fresh and creamy:
"Good day to you," at last I said;
    She turned her head to see me:
"Good day," she said, with lifted head;
    Her eyes looked soft and dreamy,

And all the while she milked and milked
    The grave cow heavy-laden:
I've seen grand ladies plumed and silked,
    But not a sweeter maiden;

But not a sweeter, fresher maid
    Than this in homely cotton,
Whose pleasant face and silky braid
    I have not yet forgotten.

Seven springs have passed since then, as I
    Count with a sober sorrow;
Seven springs have come and passed me by,
    And spring sets in to-morrow.

I've half a mind to shake myself
    Free just for once from London,
To set my work upon the shelf
    And leave it done or undone;

To run down by the early train,
    Whirl down with shriek and whistle,
And feel the bluff North blow again,
    And mark the sprouting thistle
Set up on waste patch of the lane
    Its green and tender bristle,

And spy the scarce-blown violet banks,
    Crisp primrose leaves and others,
And watch the lambs leap at their pranks
    And butt their patient mothers.

Alas, one point in all my plan
    My serious thoughts demur to:
Seven years have passed for maid and man,
    Seven years have passed for her too;

Perhaps my rose is overblown,
    Not rosy or too rosy;
Perhaps in farm-house of her own
    Some husband keeps her cosey,
Where I should show a face unknown.
    Good by, my wayside posy.

I wish I could remember that first day,
    First hour, first moment of your meeting me,
    If bright or dim the season, it might be
Summer or winter for aught I can say;
So unrecorded did it slip away,
    So blind was I to see and to foresee,
    So dull to mark the budding of my tree
That would not blossom yet for many a May.
If only I could recollect it, such
    A day of days! I let it come and go
    As traceless as a thaw of bygone snow;
It seem'd to mean so little, meant so much;
If only now I could recall that touch,
    First touch of hand in hand--Did one but know!

Come to me in the silence of the night;
Come in the speaking silence of a dream;
Come with soft rounded cheeks and eyes as bright
As sunlight on a stream;
Come back in tears,
O memory, hope, love of finished years.

O dream how sweet, too sweet, too bitter sweet,
Whose wakening should have been in Paradise,
Where souls brimfull of love abide and meet;
Where thirsting longing eyes
Watch the slow door
That opening, letting in, lets out no more.

Yet come to me in dreams, that I may live
My very life again though cold in death:
Come back to me in dreams, that I may give
Pulse for pulse, breath for breath:
Speak low, lean low
As long ago, my love, how long ago.