To A Milkmaid In Arcady

I hail thee, O Milkmaid! Goddess of the gaudy morn, Hail! Across the mead tripping, Invariably across the mead tripping, The merry mead with cowslips blooming, With daisies blooming, The Milkmaid also more or less blooming! I hail thee, O Milkmaid! I recognize the value of thy pail in literature and art. What were a pastoral poet without thee? Oh, I know thee, Milkmaid! I hail thy jaunty juvenescence. I know thy eighteen summers and thy eternal springs. Ay, I know thy trials! I know how thou art outspread over pastoral poetry. Rampant, ubiquitous, inevitable, thy riotings in pastoral poetry. And in masterpieces of pastoral art! How oft have I seen thee sitting; On a tri-legged stool sitting; On the wrong side of the cow sitting; Garbed in all thy preposterous paraphernalia. I know thy paraphernalia— Yea, even thy impossible milkpail and thy improbable bodice. Short-skirted Siren! Big-hatted Beauty! What were the gentle spring without thee? I hail thee! I hail thy vernality, and I rejoice in thy hackneyed ubiquitousness. I hail the superiority of thy inferiorness, and I lay at thy feet this garland of gratuitous Hails!