108
THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER.
The deep brook groan'd beneath the mill;
And "by that lamp," I thought, "she sits!"
The white chalk-quarry from the hill
Gleam'd to the flying moon by fits.
"O that I were beside her now!
O will she answer if I call?
O would she give me vow for vow,
Sweet Alice, if I told her all?"
Sometimes I saw you sit and spin;
And, in the pauses of the wind,
Sometimes I heard you sing within;
Sometimes your shadow cross'd the blind;
At last you rose and moved the light,
And the long shadow of the chair
Flitted across ito the night,
And all the casement darken'd there.
But when at last I dared to speak,
The lanes, you know, were white with may:
Your ripe lips moved not, but your cheek
Flush'd like the coming of the day;