The deep brook groan'd beneath the mill; And "by that lamp," I thought, “she sits!" The white chalk-quarry from the hill Gleam'd to the flying moon by fits. "O that I were beside her now! O will she answer if I call? O would she give me vow for vow, Sweet Alice, if I told her all? Sometimes I saw you sit and spin ; And, in the pauses of the wind, Sometimes I heard you sing within ; Sometimes your shadow cross'd the blind; At last you rose and moved the light, And the long shadow of the chair Flitted across into the night, And all the casement darken'd there. But when at last I dared to speak, The lanes, you know, were white with may Your ripe lips moved not, but your cheek Flush'd like the coming of the day; And so it was-half-sly, half-shy, You would, and would not, little one! Although I pleaded tenderly, And you and I were all alone. And slowly was my mother brought "Yet must I love her for your sake; Go fetch your Alice here," she said: Her eyelid quiver'd as she spake. And down I went to fetch my bride: I loved you better for your fears, I knew you could not look but well; And dews that would have fall'n in tears, I kiss'd away before they fell. I watch'd the little flutterings, The doubt my mother would not see; She spoke at large of many things, And at the last she spoke of me; And turning look'd upon your face, And rose, and, with a silent grace Ah, well-but sing the foolish song A pensive pair, and you were gay Beside the mill-wheel in the stream, While those full chestnuts whisper by. It is the miller's daughter, And she is grown so dear, so dear, That I would be the jewel That trembles at her ear: For hid in ringlets day and night, I'd touch her neck so warm and white. And I would be the girdle About her dainty dainty waist, And her heart would beat against me, And I should know if it beat right, I'd clasp it round so close and tight. And I would be the necklace, And all day long to fall and rise With her laughter or her sighs, I scarce should be unclasp'd at night. A trifle, sweet! which true love spells-True love interprets-right alone. His light upon the letter dwells, For all the spirit is his own. So, if I waste words now, in truth You must blame Love. His early rage Had force to make me rhyme in youth, And makes me talk too much in age. And now those vivid hours are gone, Half-anger'd with my happy lot, The day, when in the chestnut shade Love that hath us in the net, Many a chance the years beget. Love the gift is Love the debt. Even so. Love is hurt with jar and fret. Love is made a vague regret. |