A LITTLE maiden, in her hand
A pitcher, on her head a band
Of yellow cloth; her neck was bare,
The kerchief fluttered in the air;
The loose-stuff gown all straitly hung
And as she went about her clung;
Her bosom showed beneath the dress
Young and unconscious, and a tress
Now here, now there, crept out beneath
The band, as from the opening sheath
The tasselled spring; a slender maid,
She walked in childhood unafraid.

That such a slip of womanhood
Should blossom in a lane so rude,
That one in that low, sodden place
Should smile with such a winning grace
A marvel is unto the last!
I seemed to see, even as she passed
The summer following on the spring;
Hot, fetid days that ever bring
The noisome vapors up about
The meadow blossom in a rout;
Till in the passing of the days
The stem was bent, the shining face
Stooped down and met the marshy soil
And soon was gone. But in my heart
Even at the fancy I recoil;
I will not give her such a part.
Her eye was bright, her step was free,
And as I looked I seemed to see
The quick blood flow, the softer skin
Below the throat, beneath the chin,
The quick, young beating of the heart,
And on her face the blushes start!
Even as she came so let her go,
Whither or whence I cannot know.
I only know if in that lane
I ever chance to pass again,
The memory of that maiden fair
Will lend a fragrance to the air
And make the place, not over sweet,
Not wholly evil to my feet.