I see her passing through the fields
All fresh with daisies and with rye,
And something purer, brighter, breathes
Than the mere tints of earth and sky.
Her dainty head with grace is poised,
And‘ neath her hat-brim's shade I see
The soft, dark eyes, the pure child-face
That hold so much of joy for me!
Her feet, as loath to tread the bloom
Of flowers and of field-grass bright,
Fall lightly as she maketh way
To pass, nor leave behind her blight.
Fearless the eyes, and full of thought,
As though Life's secret fain she'd know;
Grace, of a wildness all untrained,
Wraps her within its subtile glow.
And, as she treads her way a-field
I know she seeks me, me alone!
O child! my heart grows weak, to-night,
To stifle now its secret moan!
What will ye bring her, Love and Life?
Or what withhold? I may not see;
But, oh, I pray, whate'er ye take,
Leave her her grace and purity.