The Village Wife's Lament
As if she were asham'd;
And there upon her bed to sit
Astare, as I guess,
Watching her fingers weave and knit,
Bedded in her dress,
A-thinking thoughts in her young mind
Too wild for tears to gain,
As when the roaring North-West wind
Gives no time to the rain.
Give thanks, you maids, that there's your work
To keep your heart and head
From thoughts that lurk in them who shirk
Their daily round to tread.
But she goes bold who feels the hold
And colour of her love
Laid on her task like water-gold
From the lit sky above.
I rose with early morning light,
The meadows grey with rime,
To set the kitchen fire, and dight
The room for breakfast-time;
Or make the beds, or rinse and scour,
And all the while
A singing heart, a face aflower,
And secret smile.
So 'twas with me week in, week out,
And no more to be said;
A moment's look, a hint of doubt,
A half-turn of the head.