At The Stile

Young Harry leapt over the stile and kissed her, Over the stile when the sun was sinking; ’T was only Carrie; just Mary’s sister!-- And love hath a way of thinking.

“Thy pail, sweetheart, I will take and carry.” Over the stile one star hung yellow.-- “Just to the spring, my dearest Harry.”-- And Love is a heartless fellow.

“Thou saidst me ‘yea’ in an April shower Under this tree with leaves a-quiver.”-- “I say thee nay now the cherry ’s in flower, And love is taker and giver.”

“O false! thou art false to me, sweetheart!”-- The light in her eyes grew trist and trister: “To thee, the stars, and myself, sweetheart, I never was aught but Mary’s sister.

“Sweet Mary’s sister! just little Carrie!-- But what avail my words or weeping?-- Next month, perhaps, you two will marry-- And I in my grave be sleeping.”

Alone she stands ’mid the meadow millet, Wan as the petals the wind is strewing: Some tears in her pail as she stoops to fill it-- And love hath a way of doing.