Page:Poems - Tennyson (1843) - Volume 1 of 2.djvu/120

 I watch'd the little flutterings, The doubt my mother would not see; She spoke at large of many things, And at the last she spoke of me; And turning look'd upon your face, As near this door you sat apart, And rose, and, with a silent grace Approaching, press'd you heart to heart.

Ah, well—but sing the foolish song I gave you, Alice, on the day When, arm in arm, we went along, A pensive pair, and you were gay With bridal flowers—that I may seem. As in the nights of old, to lie Beside the mill-wheel in the stream, While those full chestnuts whisper by.

It is the miller's daughter, And she is grown so dear, so dear, That I would be the jewel That trembles at her ear: