I plodded to Fairmile Hill-top, where

   A maiden one fain would guard

From every hazard and every care

   Advanced on the roadside sward.

I wondered how succeeding suns

   Would shape her wayfarings,

And wished some Power might take such ones

   Under Its warding wings.

The busy breeze came up the hill

   And smartened her cheek to red,

And frizzled her hair to a haze.  With a will

   “Good-morning, my Dear!” I said.

She glanced from me to the far-off gray,

   And, with proud severity,

“Good-morning to you—though I may say

   I am not your Dear,” quoth she:

“For I am the Dear of one not here—

   One far from his native land!”—

And she passed me by; and I did not try

   To make her understand.

1901