Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900.
By John GreenleafWhittier217 Maud Muller
M
Raked the meadow sweet with hay.
Of simple beauty and rustic health.
The mock-bird echoed from his tree.
White from its hill-slope looking down,
And a nameless longing filled her breast,—
For something better than she had known.
Smoothing his horse’s chestnut mane.
Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid,
Through the meadow across the road.
And filled for him her small tin cup,
On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown.
From a fairer hand was never quaffed.”
Of the singing birds and the humming bees;
The cloud in the west would bring foul weather.
And her graceful ankles bare and brown;
Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes.
Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away.
That I the Judge’s bride might be!
And praise and toast me at his wine.
My brother should sail a painted boat.
And the baby should have a new toy each day.
And all should bless me who left our door.”
And saw Maud Muller standing still.
Ne’er hath it been my lot to meet.
Show her wise and good as she is fair.
Like her, a harvester of hay;
Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues,
And health and quiet and loving words.”
And his mother, vain of her rank and gold.
And Maud was left in the field alone.
When he hummed in court an old love-tune;
Till the rain on the unraked clover fell.
Who lived for fashion, as he for power.
He watched a picture come and go;
Looked out in their innocent surprise.
He longed for the wayside well instead;
To dream of meadows and clover-blooms.
“Ah, that I were free again!
Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay.”
And many children played round her door
Left their traces on heart and brain.
On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot,
Over the roadside, through the wall,
She saw a rider draw his rein;
She felt his pleased eyes read her face.
Stretched away into stately halls;
The tallow candle an astral burned,
Dozing and grumbling o’er pipe and mug,
And joy was duty and love was law.
Saying only, “It might have been.”
For rich repiner and household drudge!
Who vainly the dreams of youth recall.
The saddest are these: “It might have been!”
Deeply buried from human eyes;
Roll the stone from its grave away!