B. C.
Mary, the queer girl, in the summer meadowMet someone,—was it man or shadow?
Now Mary walks and smiles, musingOn some dim memory,—choosingStones for her feet as she steps overThe shallow stream into ripe clover.
Mary is heavy. It is late summer.Mary waits for a late comerIn the high clover where no one pressesThe green flat. Mary guesses—A boy. A girl. A boy—pullingPetals from a hard disc—lullingAll disquiet into bond with himWho came on one angelic whimTo woo her into madness—MaryWho had been always quiet—veryShy, slight and wild, the queer maidenWho now walks weary, weary and heavy laden.
Heavy-laden girl with the anxious eyes,Nothing again will ever happen to you.Lie down in the clover, weary and heavy-laden,
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