Page:The ascent of man by Blind, Mathilde.djvu/137

Rh Sam never seems depressed nor yet elate,
 * Like Nature's self he goes his punctual round;

On Sundays, smoking by his garden gate,
 * For hours he'll stand, with eyes upon the ground,

Like some tired cart-horse in a field alone, And still as stone.

Yet, howsoever stolid he may seem,
 * Sam has his tragic background, weird and wild

Like some adventure in a drunkard's dream.
 * Impossible, you'd swear, for one so mild:

Yet village gossips dawdling o'er their ale Still tell the tale.

In his young days Sam loved a servant-maid,
 * A girl with happy eyes like hazel brooks

That dance i' the sun, cheeks as if newly made
 * Of pouting roses coyly hid in nooks,

And warm brown hair that wantoned into curl: A fresh-blown girl.