Three summers since I chose a maid, Too young maybe – but more’s to do.
We chased her, flying like a hareBefore our lanterns. To Church-TownAll in a shiver and a scare
Happy enough to chat and playWith birds and rabbits and such as they,So long as men-folk keep away.
Shy as a leveret, swift as he,Straight and slight as a young larch tree,To her wild self. But what to me?
She sleeps up in the attic thereAlone, poor maid. ’Tis but a stairBetwixt us. Oh! my God! the down,The soft young down of her, the brown,The brown of her—her eyes, her hair, her hair!