TWO LIVES

THEY sat with their small white feet in the brook—
Two village maidens of beauty rare.
Kate, with her bright espiegle look,
And blue-eyed Blanche in her golden hair.

They bathed the ankles so trim and neat,
They laved the breasts and the round white arms,
They plashed the water with dainty feet,
And laughed and glowed in their maiden charms.

The air was fragrant with new-mown hay,
The wild bee wrought with drowsy hum,
And they chatted the dreamy hours away
With girlish plans for the years to come.

And she with the eyes of sparkling jet,
Would be content as a farmer’s wife;
To shun the follies that wear and fret
In the simple pleasures of country life.

Then Blanche, with her laughing eyes of blue,
Shook down a river of sunny hair
That rippled and flowed in golden hue,
O’er neck, and bosom, and shoulders bare.

“And I,” she said, “would live in the town,
With lackeys to go or come at call.
And I should be proud, if men would crown
Me queen of beauty, at rout or ball.”

Oh, Blanche, in your veil of golden hair,
No sybil you, of the future life.
On you, in your beauty ripe and rare,
Shall fall the lot of the farmer’s wife.

And your soul will tire of the petty gains,
And the work-day trifles that wear the time,
And matron worry and mother-pains
Shall waste your beauty before its prime.

And red-lipped Kate, with her midnight curls,
Shall win the riches for which you pine,
Her brow shall glisten with gems and pearls,
Her board shall sparkle with plate and wine.

But she will long for the new-mown hay,
And the gusty shadows on upland leas;
And sicken and tire of her splendid way,
And sigh for the brooks, and birds, and bees.

And you shall chafe at your narrow lot,
And weary and tire of your household cares.
And each shall covet what each has not,
And pine for the burden the other bears.

Oh, city dame, and oh, farmer’s wife,
Too much forgetting—too long estranged,
Ye were two jewels of love and life—
If but the setting were turned or changed.