The Farmers Bride by Charlotte Mew (1869-1928) Three Summers since I chose a maid, Too young maybe - but mores to do At harvest-time than bide and woo. When us was wed she turned afraid Of love and me and all things human; Like the shut of a winters day. Her smile went out, and twasnt a woman-- More like a little, frightened fay. One night, in the Fall, she runned away. Out mong the sheep, her be, they said, Should properly have been abed; But sure enough she wasnt there Lying awake with her wide brown stare. So over seven-acre field and up-along across the down We chased her, flying like a hare Before our lanterns. To Church-Town All in a shiver and a scare We caught her, fetched her home at last And turned the key upon her, fast. She does the work about the house As well as most, but like a mouse: Happy enough to chat and play With birds and rabbits and such as they, So long as men-folk stay away. Not near, not near! her eyes beseech When one of us comes within reach. The women say that beasts in stall Look round like children at her call. Ive hardly heard her speak at all. Shy as a leveret, swift as he, Straight and slight as a young larch tree, Sweet as the first wild violets, she, To her wild self. But what to me? The short days shorten and the oaks are brown, The blue smoke rises to the low gray sky, One leaf in the still air falls slowly down, A magpies spotted feathers lie On the black earth spread white with rime, The berries redden up to Christmas-time. Whats Christmas-time without there be Some other in the house than we! She sleeps up in the attic there Alone, poor maid. Tis but a stair Betwixt us. Oh, my God! - the down, The soft young down of her; the brown, The brown of her - her eyes, her hair, her hair! The Farmers Bride by Charlotte Mew (read by Tom OBedlam) https://youtube/watch?v=1y6WHZ98Tks
Posted on: Fri, 26 Sep 2014 04:14:37 +0000
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