At Malmsmead, by the river side I met a little lady, And, as she passed, she sang a song That was not Tate or Brady, Or any song by art contrived Of minstrel or of poet, For baron's hall, or chanter's desk; And yet I seemed to know it. Good sooth! I think the song was mine -- The all unthinking sadness -- She read it from my longing eyes, And gave it back in gladness. And yet it was a challenge too, As plain as she could make it, So petulant, so innocent, And yet I could not take it. A breath, a gleam, and she is gone -- Just half a minute only -- So die the breaths, so fade the gleams, And we are left so lonely. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE NEED FOR MEN by JOSIAH GILBERT HOLLAND UNDER THE OAK by DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE THE OLD CUMBERLAND BEGGAR by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH TRINITIE SUNDAY by JOSEPH BEAUMONT ACROSS THE CITY by HARRY RANDOLPH BLYTHE HIGHLAND EVENING SONG by WILLIAM LAWRENCE CHITTENDEN SMALL DEATH TO LAUGH by EDOUARD JOACHIM CORBIERE OLNEY HYMNS: 30. THE LIGHT AND THE GLORY OF THE WORD by WILLIAM COWPER |