A Girl On The Trail

A flutter of skirts in the dapple of leaves on the trees, The sound of a small, happy voice on the breeze, The print of a slim little foot on the trail, And the miners rejoice as they hammer with picks in the vale.

For fairer than gold is the face of a maid, And sovereign as stars the light of her eyes; For women alone were the long trenches laid; For women alone they defy the stern skies.

These toilers are grimy, and hairy, and dun With the wear of the wind, the scorch of the sun; But their picks fall slack, their foul tongues are mute-- As the maiden goes by these earthworms salute!