At the Stile

Young Harry leapt over the stile and kissed her,
Over the stile when the sun was sinking;
’T was only Carrie; just Mary’s sister!--
And love hath a way of thinking.

“Thy pail, sweetheart, I will take and carry.”
Over the stile one star hung yellow.--
“Just to the spring, my dearest Harry.”--
And Love is a heartless fellow.

“Thou saidst me ‘yea’ in an April shower
Under this tree with leaves a-quiver.”--
“I say thee nay now the cherry ’s in flower,
And love is taker and giver.”

“O false! thou art false to me, sweetheart!”--
The light in her eyes grew trist and trister:
“To thee, the stars, and myself, sweetheart,
I never was aught but Mary’s sister.

“Sweet Mary’s sister! just little Carrie!--
But what avail my words or weeping?--
Next month, perhaps, you two will marry--
And I in my grave be sleeping.”

Alone she stands ’mid the meadow millet,
Wan as the petals the wind is strewing:
Some tears in her pail as she stoops to fill it--
And love hath a way of doing.