- MAUD MULLER, on a summer's day,
- Raked the meadows sweet with hay.
- Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth
- Of simple beauty and rustic health.
- Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee
- The mock-bird echoed from his tree.
- But, when she glanced to the far-off town,
- White from its hill-slope looking down,
- The sweet song died, and a vague unrest
- And a nameless longing filled her breast--
- A wish, that she hardly dared to own,
- For something better than she had known.
- The Judge rode slowly down the lane,
- Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane.
- He drew his bridle in the shade
- Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid,
- And ask a draught from the spring that flowed
- Through the meadow across the road.
- She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up,
- And filled for him her small tin cup,
- And blushed as she gave it, looking down
- On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown.
- "Thanks!" said the Judge, "a sweeter draught
- From a fairer hand was never quaffed."
- He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees,
- Of the singing birds and the humming bees;
- Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether
- The cloud in the west would bring foul weather.
- And Maud forgot her briar-torn gown,
- And her graceful ankles bare and brown;
- And listened, while a pleasant surprise
- Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes.
- At last, like one who for delay
- Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away,
- Maud Muller looked and sighed: "Ah, me!
- That I the Judge's bride might be!
- "He would dress me up in silks so fine,
- And praise and toast me at his wine.
- "My father should wear a broadcloth coat;
- My brother should sail a painted boat.
- "I'd dress my mother so grand and gay,
- And the baby should have a new toy each day.
- "And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor,
- And all should bless me who left our door."
- The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill,
- And saw Maud Muller standing still.
- "A form more fair, a face more sweet,
- Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet.
- "And her modest answer and graceful air
- Show her wise and good as she is fair.
- "Would she were mine, and I to-day,
- Like her, a harvester of hay:
- "No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs,
- Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues,
- "But low of cattle, and song of birds,
- And health, and quiet, and loving words."
- But he thought of his sisters, proud and cold,
- And his mother, vain of her rank and gold.
- So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on,
- And Maud was left in the field alone.
- But the lawyers smiled that afternoon,
- When he hummed in court an old love-tune;
- And the young girl mused beside the well,
- Till the rain on the unraked clover fell.
- He wedded a wife of richest dower,
- Who lived for fashion, as he for power.
- Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow,
- He watched a picture come and go:
- And sweet Maud Muller's hazel eyes
- Looked out in their innocent surprise.
- Oft when the wine in his glass was red,
- He longed for the wayside well instead;
- And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms,
- To dream of meadows and clover-blooms.
- And the proud man sighed, with a secret pain,
- "Ah, that I were free again!
- "Free as when I rode that day,
- Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay."
- She wedded a man unlearned and poor,
- And many children played round her door.
- But care and sorrow, and child-birth pain,
- Left their traces on heart and brain.
- And oft, when the summer sun shone hot
- On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot,
- And she heard the little spring brook fall
- Over the roadside, through the wall,
- In the shade of the apple-tree again
- She saw a rider draw his rein,
- And, gazing down with timid grace,
- She felt his pleased eyes read her face.
- Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls
- Stretched away into stately halls;
- The weary wheel to a spinnet turned,
- The tallow candle an astral burned;
- And for him who sat by the chimney lug,
- Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug,
- A manly form at her side she saw,
- And joy was duty and love was law.
- Then she took up her burden of life again,
- Saying only, "It might have been."
- Alas for maiden, alas for Judge,
- For rich repiner and household drudge!
- God pity them both! and pity us all,
- Who vainly the dreams of youth recall;
- For of all sad words of tongue or pen,
- The saddest are these: "It might have been!"
- Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope lies
- Deeply buried from human eyes;
- And, in the hereafter, angels may
- Roll the stone from its grave away!
A place to come and unload my thoughts on news, pop culture, or anything else that is on my mind
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Poetry Corner: Maud Muller by John Greenleaf Whittier
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