Under a daisied bank

There stands a rich red ruminating cow,

   And hard against her flank

A cotton-hooded milkmaid bends her brow.

   The flowery river-ooze

Upheaves and falls; the milk purrs in the pail;

   Few pilgrims but would choose

The peace of such a life in such a vale.

   The maid breathes words—to vent,

It seems, her sense of Nature’s scenery,

   Of whose life, sentiment,

And essence, very part itself is she.

   She bends a glance of pain,

And, at a moment, lets escape a tear;

   Is it that passing train,

Whose alien whirr offends her country ear?—

   Nay!  Phyllis does not dwell

On visual and familiar things like these;

   What moves her is the spell

Of inner themes and inner poetries:

   Could but by Sunday morn

Her gay new gown come, meads might dry to dun,

   Trains shriek till ears were torn,

If Fred would not prefer that Other One.