Under a daisied bank
There stands a rich red ruminating cow,
        And hard against her flank
A cotton-hooded milkmaid bends her brow.

        The flowery river-ooze
Upheaves and falls; the milk purrs in the pail;
        Few pilgrims but would choose
The peace of such a life in such a vale.

        The maid breathes words—to vent,
It seems, her sense of Nature's scenery,
        Of whose life, sentiment,
And essence, very part itself is she.

        She bends a glance of pain,
And, at a moment, lets escape a tear;
        Is it that passing train,
Whose alien whirr offends her country ear? -

        Nay! Phyllis does not dwell
On visual and familiar things like these;
        What moves her is the spell
Of inner themes and inner poetries:

        Could but by Sunday morn
Her gay new gown come, meads might dry to dun,
        Trains shriek till ears were torn,
If Fred would not prefer that Other One.