Page:Cheskian Anthology.pdf/195



sown the millet, yet I dare not reap the millet sown,

I've lov'd the maiden, and I shrink fromm calling her my own.

To saw and reap not-love and keep not—strange and sad decree;

Sown, not gather'd—lov'd, not wedded—luckless doom for me.

Beneath the ash tree, near the mill upon the mountain brow,

My maiden swore eternal love—where is her promise now?

I gave a garland—from a farland—and she gave a ring

To her lover—idle treasure—which no love could bring.