Poems (Tennyson, 1833)/The Miller's Daughter
For other versions of this work, see The Miller's Daughter.
THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER.
I.
I met in all the close green ways,
While walking with my line and rod,
The wealthy miller's mealy face,
Like the moon in an ivytod.
He looked so jolly and so good—
While fishing in the milldam-water,
I laughed to see him as he stood,
And dreamt not of the miller's daughter.
I met in all the close green ways,
While walking with my line and rod,
The wealthy miller's mealy face,
Like the moon in an ivytod.
He looked so jolly and so good—
While fishing in the milldam-water,
I laughed to see him as he stood,
And dreamt not of the miller's daughter.
II.
I see the wealthy miller yet—
His double chin—his portly size;
And who that knew him could forget
The husy wrinkles round his eyes,
The slow wise smile, that, round about
His dusty forehead drily curled,
Seemed half-within, and half-without,
And full of dealings with the world?
I see the wealthy miller yet—
His double chin—his portly size;
And who that knew him could forget
The husy wrinkles round his eyes,
The slow wise smile, that, round about
His dusty forehead drily curled,
Seemed half-within, and half-without,
And full of dealings with the world?
III.
In yonder chair I see him sit—
Three fingers round the old silver cup:
I see his gray eyes twinkle yet
At his own jest—gray eyes lit up
With summer lightnings of a soul
So full of summer warmth, so glad,
So healthy, sound and clear and whole,
His memory scarce makes me sad.
In yonder chair I see him sit—
Three fingers round the old silver cup:
I see his gray eyes twinkle yet
At his own jest—gray eyes lit up
With summer lightnings of a soul
So full of summer warmth, so glad,
So healthy, sound and clear and whole,
His memory scarce makes me sad.
IV.
Yet fill my glass,—give me one kiss;
My darling Alice, we must die.
There's somewhat in this world amiss,
Shall be unriddled by and by.
There's somewhat flows to us in life,
But more is taken quite away.
Pray, Alice, pray, my own sweet wife,
That we may die the selfsame day.
Yet fill my glass,—give me one kiss;
My darling Alice, we must die.
There's somewhat in this world amiss,
Shall be unriddled by and by.
There's somewhat flows to us in life,
But more is taken quite away.
Pray, Alice, pray, my own sweet wife,
That we may die the selfsame day.
V.
My father's mansion, mounted high,
Looked down upon the village-spire.
I was a long and listless boy,
And son and heir unto the squire.
In these dear walls, where I and you
Have lived and loved alone so long,
Each morn my sleep was broken thro'
By some wild skylark's matin song.
My father's mansion, mounted high,
Looked down upon the village-spire.
I was a long and listless boy,
And son and heir unto the squire.
In these dear walls, where I and you
Have lived and loved alone so long,
Each morn my sleep was broken thro'
By some wild skylark's matin song.
VI.
I often heard the cooing dove
In firry woodlands mour alone,
But ere I saw your eyes, my love,
I had no motion of my own:
For scarce my life with fancy played,
Before I dreamed that pleasant dream,
Still hither, thither, idly swayed,
Like the long mosses in the stream.
I often heard the cooing dove
In firry woodlands mour alone,
But ere I saw your eyes, my love,
I had no motion of my own:
For scarce my life with fancy played,
Before I dreamed that pleasant dream,
Still hither, thither, idly swayed,
Like the long mosses in the stream.
VII.
Sometimes I whistled in the wind,
Sometimes I angled, thought and deed
Torpid, as swallows left behind
That winter 'neath the floating weed:
At will to wander everyway
From brook to brook my sole delight,
As lithe eels over meadows gray
Oft shift their glimmering pool by night.
Sometimes I whistled in the wind,
Sometimes I angled, thought and deed
Torpid, as swallows left behind
That winter 'neath the floating weed:
At will to wander everyway
From brook to brook my sole delight,
As lithe eels over meadows gray
Oft shift their glimmering pool by night.
VIII.
How dear to me in youth, my love,
Was every thing about the mill,
The black and silent pool above,
The pool beneath that ne'er stood still,
The mealsacks on the whitened floor,
The dark round of the dripping wheel,
The very air about the door
Made misty with the floating meal!
How dear to me in youth, my love,
Was every thing about the mill,
The black and silent pool above,
The pool beneath that ne'er stood still,
The mealsacks on the whitened floor,
The dark round of the dripping wheel,
The very air about the door
Made misty with the floating meal!
IX.
I loved from off the bridge to hear
The rushing sound the water made,
And see the fish that everywhere
In the backcurrent glanced and played;
Low down the tall flagflower that sprung
Beside the noisy steppingstones,
And the massed chestnutboughs that hung
Thickstudded over with white cones.
I loved from off the bridge to hear
The rushing sound the water made,
And see the fish that everywhere
In the backcurrent glanced and played;
Low down the tall flagflower that sprung
Beside the noisy steppingstones,
And the massed chestnutboughs that hung
Thickstudded over with white cones.
X.
Remember you that pleasant day
When, after roving in the woods,
(‘Twas April then) I came and lay
Beneath those gummy chestnutbuds
That glistened in the April blue.
Upon the slope so smooth and cool,
I lay and never thought of you,
But angled in the deep millpool.
Remember you that pleasant day
When, after roving in the woods,
(‘Twas April then) I came and lay
Beneath those gummy chestnutbuds
That glistened in the April blue.
Upon the slope so smooth and cool,
I lay and never thought of you,
But angled in the deep millpool.
XI.
A water-rat from off the bank
Plunged in the stream. With idle care,
Downlooking thro' the sedges rank,
I saw your troubled image there.
Upon the dark and dimpled beck
It wandered like a floating light,
A full fair form, a warm white neck,
And two white arms—how rosy white!
A water-rat from off the bank
Plunged in the stream. With idle care,
Downlooking thro' the sedges rank,
I saw your troubled image there.
Upon the dark and dimpled beck
It wandered like a floating light,
A full fair form, a warm white neck,
And two white arms—how rosy white!
XII.
If you remember, you had set
Upon the narrow casement-edge
A long green box of mignonette,
And you were leaning from the ledge.
I raised my eyes at once: above
They met two eyes so blue and bright,
Such eyes! I swear to you, my love,
That they have never lost their light.
If you remember, you had set
Upon the narrow casement-edge
A long green box of mignonette,
And you were leaning from the ledge.
I raised my eyes at once: above
They met two eyes so blue and bright,
Such eyes! I swear to you, my love,
That they have never lost their light.
XIII.
That slope beneath the chestnut tall
Is wooed with choicest breaths of air:
Methinks that I could tell you all
The cowslips and the kingcups there.
Each coltsfoot down the grassy bent,
Whose round leaves hold the gathered shower,
Each quaintly-folded cuckoopint,
And silver-paly cuckooflower.
That slope beneath the chestnut tall
Is wooed with choicest breaths of air:
Methinks that I could tell you all
The cowslips and the kingcups there.
Each coltsfoot down the grassy bent,
Whose round leaves hold the gathered shower,
Each quaintly-folded cuckoopint,
And silver-paly cuckooflower.
XIV.
In rambling on the eastern wold,
When thro' the showery April nights
Their hueless crescent glimmered cold,
From all the other village-lights
I knew your taper far away.
My heart was full of trembling hope.
Down from the wold I came and lay
Upon the dewyswarded slope.
In rambling on the eastern wold,
When thro' the showery April nights
Their hueless crescent glimmered cold,
From all the other village-lights
I knew your taper far away.
My heart was full of trembling hope.
Down from the wold I came and lay
Upon the dewyswarded slope.
XV.
The white chalkquarry from the hill
Upon the broken ripple gleamed,
I murmured lowly, sitting still
While round my feet the eddy streamed:
"Oh! that I were the wreath she wreathes,
The mirror where her sight she feeds,
The song she sings, the air she breathes,
The letters of the book she reads."
The white chalkquarry from the hill
Upon the broken ripple gleamed,
I murmured lowly, sitting still
While round my feet the eddy streamed:
"Oh! that I were the wreath she wreathes,
The mirror where her sight she feeds,
The song she sings, the air she breathes,
The letters of the book she reads."
XVI.
Sometimes I saw you sit and spin,
And, in the pauses of the wind,
Sometimes I heard you sing within,
Sometimes your shadow crossed the blind.
At last you rose, and moved the light,
And the long shadow of the chair
Flitted across into the night,
And all the casement darkened there.
Sometimes I saw you sit and spin,
And, in the pauses of the wind,
Sometimes I heard you sing within,
Sometimes your shadow crossed the blind.
At last you rose, and moved the light,
And the long shadow of the chair
Flitted across into the night,
And all the casement darkened there.
XVII.
I loved, but when I dared to speak
My love, the lanes were white with May,
Your ripe lips moved not, but your cheek
Flushed like the coming of the day.
Rosecheekt, roselipt, half-sly, half-shy,
You would, and would not, little one,
Altho' I pleaded tenderly,
And you and I were all alone.
I loved, but when I dared to speak
My love, the lanes were white with May,
Your ripe lips moved not, but your cheek
Flushed like the coming of the day.
Rosecheekt, roselipt, half-sly, half-shy,
You would, and would not, little one,
Altho' I pleaded tenderly,
And you and I were all alone.
XVIII.
Remember you the clear moonlight,
That whitened all the eastern ridge,
When o'er the water, dancing white,
I stepped upon the old millbridge.
I heard you whisper from above
A lutetoned whisper, "I am here;"
I murmured, "Speak again, my love,
The stream is loud: I cannot hear."
Remember you the clear moonlight,
That whitened all the eastern ridge,
When o'er the water, dancing white,
I stepped upon the old millbridge.
I heard you whisper from above
A lutetoned whisper, "I am here;"
I murmured, "Speak again, my love,
The stream is loud: I cannot hear."
XIX.
I heard, as I have seemed to hear,
When all the under-air was still,
The low voice of the glad new year
Call to the freshly-flowered hill.
I heard, as I have often heard
The nightingale in leavy woods
Call to its mate, when nothing stirred
To left or right but falling floods.
I heard, as I have seemed to hear,
When all the under-air was still,
The low voice of the glad new year
Call to the freshly-flowered hill.
I heard, as I have often heard
The nightingale in leavy woods
Call to its mate, when nothing stirred
To left or right but falling floods.
XX.
Come, Alice, sing to me the song
I made you on our marriageday,
When, arm in arm, we went along
Half-tearfully, and you were gay
With brooch and ring: for I shall seem,
The while you sing that song, to hear
The millwheel turning in the stream,
And the green chestnut whisper near.
Come, Alice, sing to me the song
I made you on our marriageday,
When, arm in arm, we went along
Half-tearfully, and you were gay
With brooch and ring: for I shall seem,
The while you sing that song, to hear
The millwheel turning in the stream,
And the green chestnut whisper near.
SONG.
I wish I were her earring,
Ambushed in auburn ringlets sleek,
(So might my shadow tremble
Over her downy cheek,)
Hid in her hair, all day and night,
Touching her neck so warm and white.
I wish I were her earring,
Ambushed in auburn ringlets sleek,
(So might my shadow tremble
Over her downy cheek,)
Hid in her hair, all day and night,
Touching her neck so warm and white.
I wish I were the girdle
Buckled about her dainty waist,
That her heart might beat against me,
In sorrow and in rest.
I should know well if it beat right,
I'd clasp it round so close and tight.
Buckled about her dainty waist,
That her heart might beat against me,
In sorrow and in rest.
I should know well if it beat right,
I'd clasp it round so close and tight.
I wish I were her necklace,
So might I ever fall and rise
Upon her balmy bosom
With her laughter, or her sighs.
I would lie round so warm and light
I would not be unclasped at night.
XXI.
A trifle, sweet! which true love spells—
True love interprets right alone;
For o'er each letter broods and dwells,
(Like light from running waters thrown
On flowery swaths) the blissful flame
Of his sweet eyes, that, day and night,
With pulses thrilling thro' his frame
Do inly tremble, starrybright.
So might I ever fall and rise
Upon her balmy bosom
With her laughter, or her sighs.
I would lie round so warm and light
I would not be unclasped at night.
XXI.
A trifle, sweet! which true love spells—
True love interprets right alone;
For o'er each letter broods and dwells,
(Like light from running waters thrown
On flowery swaths) the blissful flame
Of his sweet eyes, that, day and night,
With pulses thrilling thro' his frame
Do inly tremble, starrybright.
XXII.
How I waste language—yet in truth
You must blame love, whose early rage
Made me a rhymster in my youth,
And over-garrulous in age.
Sing me that other song I made,
Half-angered with my happy lot,
When in the breezy limewood-shade,
I found the blue forget-me-not.
How I waste language—yet in truth
You must blame love, whose early rage
Made me a rhymster in my youth,
And over-garrulous in age.
Sing me that other song I made,
Half-angered with my happy lot,
When in the breezy limewood-shade,
I found the blue forget-me-not.
SONG.
All yesternight you met me not.
My ladylove, forget me not.
When I am gone, regret me not,
But, here or there, forget me not.
With your arched eyebrow threat me not,
And tremulous eyes, like April skies,
That seem to say, 'forget me not.'
I pray you, love, forget me not.
All yesternight you met me not.
My ladylove, forget me not.
When I am gone, regret me not,
But, here or there, forget me not.
With your arched eyebrow threat me not,
And tremulous eyes, like April skies,
That seem to say, 'forget me not.'
I pray you, love, forget me not.
In idle sorrow set me not;
Regret me not: forget me not:
Oh! leave me not; oh, let me not
Wear quite away;—forget me not.
With roguish laughter fret me not
From dewy eyes, like April skies,
That ever look, 'forget me not,'
Blue as the blue forget-me-not.
XXIII.
Look thro' mine eyes with thine. True wife,
Round my true heart thine arms entwine,
My other dearer life in life,
Look thro' my very soul with thine.
Untouched with any shade of years,
May those kind eyes for ever dwell,
They have not shed a many tears,
Dear eyes! since first I knew them well.
Regret me not: forget me not:
Oh! leave me not; oh, let me not
Wear quite away;—forget me not.
With roguish laughter fret me not
From dewy eyes, like April skies,
That ever look, 'forget me not,'
Blue as the blue forget-me-not.
XXIII.
Look thro' mine eyes with thine. True wife,
Round my true heart thine arms entwine,
My other dearer life in life,
Look thro' my very soul with thine.
Untouched with any shade of years,
May those kind eyes for ever dwell,
They have not shed a many tears,
Dear eyes! since first I knew them well.
XXIV.
I've half a mind to walk, my love,
To the old mill across the wolds,
For look! the sunset from above
Winds all the vale in rosy folds,
And fires your narrow casementglass,
Touching the sullen pool below.
On the chalk-hill the bearded grass
Is dry and dewless. Let us go.
I've half a mind to walk, my love,
To the old mill across the wolds,
For look! the sunset from above
Winds all the vale in rosy folds,
And fires your narrow casementglass,
Touching the sullen pool below.
On the chalk-hill the bearded grass
Is dry and dewless. Let us go.