Page:The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 21.djvu/12

4 She sat beneath the broad-armed elms

That skirt the mowing-meadow,

And watched the gentle west-wind weave

The grass with shine and shadow.

Beside her, from the summer heat

To share her grateful screening,

With forehead bared, the farmer stood,

Upon his pitchfork leaning.

Framed in its damp, dark locks, his face

Had nothing mean or common,—

Strong, manly, true, the tenderness

And pride beloved of woman.

She looked up, glowing with the health

The country air had brought her,

And, laughing, said: "You lack a wife,

Your mother lacks a daughter.

To mend your frock and bake your bread

You do not need a lady:

Be sure among these brown old homes

Is some one waiting ready,—

"Some fair, sweet girl with skilful hand

And cheerful heart for treasure,

Who never played with ivory keys,

Or danced the polka's measure."

He bent his black brows to a frown,

He set his white teeth tightly.

"'T is well," he said, "for one like you

To choose for me so lightly.

"You think, because my life is rude,

I take no note of sweetness;

I tell you love has naught to do

With meetness or unmeetness.

"Itself its best excuse, it asks

No leave of pride or fashion

When silken zone or homespun frock

It stirs with throbs of passion.

"You think me deaf and blind; you bring

Your winning graces hither

As free as if from cradle-time

We two had played together.

"You tempt me with your laughing eyes,

Your cheek of sundown's blushes,