The Tollman’S Daughter

She stood waist-deep among the briers: Above, in twisted lengths, were rolled The sunset’s tangled whorls of gold, Blown from the west’s cloud-pillared fires. And in the hush, no sound did mar, You almost heard, o’er hill and dell, Deep, bubbling over, star on star, The night’s blue cisterns slowly well. A crane, a shadowy crescent, crossed The sunset, winging ’thwart the west; While up the east her silver breast Of light the moon brought, white as frost.

So have I painted her, you see, The tollman’s daughter.--What an arm And throat were hers! and what a form! --Art dreams of such divinity. What braids of night to smooth and kiss!-- There is no pigment anywhere A man might use to picture this-- The splendor of her raven hair. A face as beautiful and bright, As rosy fair as twilight skies, Lit with the stars of hazel eyes And eyebrowed black with penciled night.

For her, I know, where’er she trod Each dewdrop raised a looking-glass, To catch her image, from the grass; That wildflowers bloomed along the sod, And whispered perfume when she smiled; The wood-bird hushed to hear her song, Or, heart-enamoured, tame though wild, Before her feet flew fluttering long: The brook went mad with melody, Eddied in laughter when she kissed With naked feet its amethyst-- And I--she was my world, ah me!