Under a daisied bank <br />There stands a rich red ruminating cow, <br /> And hard against her flank <br />A cotton-hooded milkmaid bends her brow. <br /> <br /> The flowery river-ooze <br />Upheaves and falls; the milk purrs in the pail; <br /> Few pilgrims but would choose <br />The peace of such a life in such a vale. <br /> <br /> The maid breathes words--to vent, <br />It seems, her sense of Nature's scenery, <br /> Of whose life, sentiment, <br />And essence, very part itself is she. <br /> <br /> She bends a glance of pain, <br />And, at a moment, lets escape a tear; <br /> Is it that passing train, <br />Whose alien whirr offends her country ear? - <br /> <br /> Nay! Phyllis does not dwell <br />On visual and familiar things like these; <br /> What moves her is the spell <br />Of inner themes and inner poetries: <br /> <br /> Could but by Sunday morn <br />Her gay new gown come, meads might dry to dun, <br /> Trains shriek till ears were torn, <br />If Fred would not prefer that Other One.<br /><br />Thomas Hardy<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-milkmaid/
