Frank Leslie's Illustrated Newspaper/Volume 18/Number 451/Thinking

THINKING

Through the clouds of gold and purple
Slow the sun is sinking;
Fetlock deep within the river
Stand the cattle drinking;
On the bridge above the millstreams
Rests the maiden—thinking.

Nutbrown hair that mocks the sunset
With its golden gleaming
Hands above her pitcher folded,
With the graceful seeming
Of an antique-sculptured Nereid,
By a fountain dreaming.

As a tender thought had swayed her,
O'er the stream she's leaning,
While her red lips curve and quiver
With a sudden meaning,
And a quick nod shakes her ringlets,
All her features screening.

For there comes a sound of laughter,
And a merry cheering;
And the cattle turn their faces
To a step that's nearing—
And she waits for words low spoken
In a tone endearing.

Low behind the western tree-tops
Now the sun is sinking,
Towards the bridge the weary cattle
Turn themselves from drinking—
And they never guessed, as I did,
What the maid was thinking.