The Pond

In this pond of placid water,
Half a hundred years ago,
So they say, a farmer’s daughter,
Jilted by her farmer beau,

Waded out among the rushes,
Scattering the blue dragon-flies;
That dried stick the ripple washes
Marks the spot, I should surmise.

Think, so near the public highway,
Well frequented even then!
Can you not conceive the sly way,--
Hearing wheels or seeing men

Passing on the road above,--
With a gesture feigned and silly,
Ere she drowned herself for love,
She would reach to pluck a lily?