UNTITLED

She stole behind him where he lay

All tossed and tired from the dance.

He turned his curly head away

With pretty boyish petulance.

She said, ‘I loved you all the while,

Rough Colin is a clumsy clout.’

He twirled his crook, and would not smile

His cross lips from their rosy pout.

She said, ‘You are more dear to me

Than are the fat lambs of my flock.’

He would not speak, but sulkily

Smoothed down his crumpled linen smock.

She said, ‘I love you best of all,’

And put her little hand in his.

Her voice was sweeter than the call

At evening of the pigeon is.

He shook her clinging fingers off:

(But little maids have little wiles)

She said, ‘I heard your white ewe cough,

Just as I passed beyond the stiles.’

He rose and seized his polished crook;

She hid her face in birdlike laughter;

He raced along the sedgy brook

And she – alas, she followed after.

She followed, and he ran before,

Carelessly whistling to the wind,

But ere he closed the sheepfold door

The gold-haired child crept in behind.

There rose a little undertune

Of singing in the wattled fold,

And through its latticed cloud the moon

Leaned down with naked arms of gold.