She lived in the valley beneath a low gray hill,
With the long fields beyond. Those few who came
Found her always sitting there, sullen, still,
Gazing far over the wheat, always the same
Red scarf over her broad shoulders, and her hair
Gray and untidy over her hard dark face;
Each evening, passing, they saw her sitting there,
A strong dark figure in that quiet place.
Moving aimlessly through the ribbed bundles of wheat,
Mumbling. . . And once, when the fields lay, cold and white,
They found her, wandering, ice on her bare feet. . . .
And the next day she would be sitting there,
Again, stolidly, in the worn rocking-chair.
Again she sat, now that the fragile moon
Was over the bridge, waiting, as she had waited
Once . . . when the dusk fell all the afternoon
Stealthily, lasting far into a belated
Misty sunset; so she was sitting again
Under this elm, by this thin stream, and so
Again she was watching the branches, which the rain
Left gleaming, move to and fro, to and fro. . . .
Always this elm, this stream. . . Her strong brown hands
Lay folded as once those frail ones, candid, still,
And, as the moon lay on it in slim white bands,
Calmly she turned her eyes to the waiting hill:
Always, always, she too would be waiting there,
Waiting, for a dark face with dark young hair.
Down the worn steps she strode; these daffodils
She had set there with her large sun-bronzed hands. . .
Here she had sat, while the sun set in bands
Of chrome across the purple distant hills,
After the milking. Now the wooden gate
Succinctly clicked. . . .Here Spring had spilled new white
Thin blossoms on the hawthorn hedge; each night
She used to wander aimlessly here, till late. . . .
Down the steep narrow path, down to the shore
Where in the willows the old boat lay hid:
Over it all a new thin rain had slid
A slight gray veil. . . .Slowly she turned once more:
These trees, these hills she would not see again;
Now only sky, and wind, and the clean rain.