The Tollman’s Daughter

She stood waist-deep among the briers:
Above, in twisted lengths, were rolled
The sunset’s tangled whorls of gold,
Blown from the west’s cloud-pillared fires.
And in the hush, no sound did mar,
You almost heard, o’er hill and dell,
Deep, bubbling over, star on star,
The night’s blue cisterns slowly well.
A crane, a shadowy crescent, crossed
The sunset, winging ’thwart the west;
While up the east her silver breast
Of light the moon brought, white as frost.

So have I painted her, you see,
The tollman’s daughter.--What an arm
And throat were hers! and what a form!
--Art dreams of such divinity.
What braids of night to smooth and kiss!--
There is no pigment anywhere
A man might use to picture this--
The splendor of her raven hair.
A face as beautiful and bright,
As rosy fair as twilight skies,
Lit with the stars of hazel eyes
And eyebrowed black with penciled night.

For her, I know, where’er she trod
Each dewdrop raised a looking-glass,
To catch her image, from the grass;
That wildflowers bloomed along the sod,
And whispered perfume when she smiled;
The wood-bird hushed to hear her song,
Or, heart-enamoured, tame though wild,
Before her feet flew fluttering long:
The brook went mad with melody,
Eddied in laughter when she kissed
With naked feet its amethyst--
And I--she was my world, ah me!