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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=355398" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Farmer's Bride</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Three summers since I chose a maid,<br>Too young maybe-but more's to do<br>At harvest-time that a bide and woo.<br>When us was wed she turned afraid<br>Of love and me and all things human;<br>Like the shut of winter's day<br>Her smile went out, and `twadn't a woman-<br>More like a little frightened fay.<br>One night, in the Fall, she runned away.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">&quot;Out 'mong the sheep, her be,&quot; they said,<br>Should properly have been abed;<br>But sureenough she wadn't there<br>Lying awake with her wide brown stare.<br>So over seven-acre field and up-along across the down<br>We chased her, flying like a hare<br>Before out lanterns. To Church-Town<br>All in a shiver and a scare<br>We caught her, fetched her home at last<br>And turned the key upon her, fast.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">She does the work about the hosue<br>As well as most, but like a mouse:<br>Happy enough to cheat and play<br>With birds and rabbits and such as they,<br>So long as men-folk keep away<br>&quot;Not near, not near!&quot; her eyes beseech<br>When one of us comes within reach.<br>The woman say that beasts in stall<br>Look round like children at her call.<br>I've hardly heard her speak at all.<br>Shy as a leveret, swift as he,<br>Straight and slight as a young larch tree,<br>Sweet as the first wild violets, she,<br>To her wild self. But what to me?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The short days shorten and the oaks are brown,<br>The blue smoke rises to the low grey sky,<br>One leaf in the still air falls slowly down,<br>A magpie's spotted feathers lie<br>An the black earth spread white with rime,<br>The berries redden up to Christmas-time.<br>What's Christmas-time without there be<br>Some other in the house than we!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">She sleeps up in the attic there<br>Alone, poor maid. `Tis but a stair<br>Betwixt us. Oh! my God! the down, <br>The soft young down of her, the brown,<br>The brown of her-her eyes, her hair, her hair!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Charlotte+Mary+Mew">Charlotte Mary Mew</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=355398" data-title="The Farmer's Bride de Charlotte Mary Mew" data-description="Three summers since I chose a maid,
Too young maybe-but more's to do
At harvest-time that a bide and woo.
When us was wed she turned afraid
Of love and me and all things human;
Like the shut of winter's day
Her smile went out, and `twadn't a woman..."></div>
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