Classic Poem

Halfway up the Hemlock valley turnpike,
— In the bend of Silver Water's arm,
Where the deer come trooping down at even,
— Drink the cowslip pool, and fear no harm,
Dwells Emilia,
— Flower of the fields of Camlet Farm.

Sitting sewing by the western window
— As the too brief mountain sunshine flies,
Hast thou seen a slender-shouldered figure
— With a chestnut braid, Minerva-wise,
Round her temples,
— Shadowing her gray, enchanted eyes?

When the freshets flood the Silver Water,
— When the swallow flying northward braves
Sleeting rains that sweep the birchen foothills
— Where the windflowers' pale plantation waves —
(Fairy gardens
— Springing from the dead leaves in their graves), —

Falls forgotten, then, Emilia's needle;
— Ancient ballads, fleeting through her brain,
Sing the cuckoo and the English primrose,
— Outdoors calling with a quaint refrain;
And a rainbow
— Seems to brighten through the gusty rain.

Forth she goes, in some old dress and faded,
— Fearless of the showery shifting wind;
Kilted are her skirts to clear the mosses,
— And her bright braids in a 'kerchief pinned,
Younger sister
— Of the damsel-errant Rosalind.

While she helps to serve the harvest supper
— In the lantern-lighted village hall,
Moonlight rises on the burning woodland,
— Echoes dwindle from the distant Fall.
Hark, Emilia!
— In her ear the airy voices call.

Hidden papers in the dusty garret,
— Where her few and secret poems lie, —
Thither flies her heart to join her treasure,
— While she serves, with absent-musing eye,
Mighty tankards
— Foaming cider in the glasses high.

" Would she mingle with her young companions! "
— Vainly do her aunts and uncles say;
Ever, from the village sports and dances,
— Early missed, Emilia slips away.
Whither vanished?
— With what unimagined mates to play?

Did they seek her, wandering by the water,
— They should find her comrades shy and strange:
Queens and princesses, and saints and fairies,
— Dimly moving in a cloud of change: —
Desdemona;
— Mariana of the Moated Grange.

Up this valley to the fair and market
— When young farmers from the southward ride,
Oft they linger at a sound of chanting
— In the meadows by the turnpike side;
Long they listen,
— Deep in fancies of a fairy bride.