Lepota

Lepota went forth to the harvest—she held A sickle of silver in fingers of gold: And the sun mounted high o’er the parched harvest field; And the maiden in song all her sympathies told. “I’ll give my white forehead to him who shall bind All the sheaves which my sickle leaves scatter’d behind: I’ll give my black eyes to the friend who shall bring A draught of sweet water just fresh from the spring; And to him who shall bear me to rest in the shade, I will be—and for aye—an affectionate maid.”

And she thought that her words were all wasted in air: But a shepherd—just watching his sheepfold, was there; And he flew, and with sedges he bound all the sheaves; And he made her an arbor of haslewood leaves; And he ran to the spring, and he brought the sweet water; And he look’d on the face of Beauty’s young daughter, And he said, “Lovely maiden, thy promise I claim;” But the cheeks of the maiden were cover’d with shame, And she said to the shepherd, while blushing—“Not so! Go back to thy sheepfold—thou wanderer, go! For if thou didst bind the loose sheaves, thou hast left Thy sheep in the stubble, to wander bereft; And if from the fountain the water thou beared’st, Its freshness and coolness thou equally shared’st; And if thou hast reared up an arbor of shade, For thyself as for me its refreshment was made.”