Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, DOVECOTT MILL: 10. PLIGHTED, by PHOEBE CARY


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

DOVECOTT MILL: 10. PLIGHTED, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Oh, the tender joy of those autumn hours
Last Line: They kept their wooing a whole sweet year.
Subject(s): Courtship


Oh, the tender joy of those autumn hours,
When fancy clothed with spring the bowers,
And the dead leaves under the feet seemed flowers!

Oh, the blessed, blessed days of youth,
When the heart is filled with gentle ruth,
And lovers take their dreams for truth.

Oh, the hopes they had, and the plans they planned,
The man and the maid, as hand in hand,
They walked in a fair, enchanted land!

Marred with no jealousy, fear, or doubt,
At worst, but a little pet or pout,
Just for the "making up," no doubt!

Have I said how looked our wood nymph, wild?
And how in these days she always smiled,
Guileless and glad as a little child?

Her voice had a tender pleading tone,
She was just a rose-bud, almost grown
And before its leaves are fully blown.

Graceful and tall as a lily fair,
The peach lent the bloom to her blushes rare,
And the thrush the brown of her rippling hair.

Colored with violet, blue were her eyes,
Stolen from the breeze her gentle sighs,
And her soul was borrowed from the skies.

And you, if a man, could hardly fail,
If you saw her tripping down the dale,
To think her a Princess of fairy tale;

Doomed for a time by charm or spell,
Deep in some lonely, haunted dell,
With mischief-loving elves to dwell.

Or bound for a season, body and soul,
Underneath a great green knoll,
To live alone with a wicked Troll.

You would have feared her form so slight
Would vanish into the air or light,
Or sudden, sink in the earth from sight.

And you must have looked, and longed to see
The handsome Prince who should set her free
Come riding his good steed gallantly.

Just as fair as the good year's prime,
To our lovers was the cold and rime,
For their bright lives had no winter-time.

The drifts might pile, and the winds might blow,
Still, up from the mill to the cottage, low,
There was a straight path cut through the snow.

And it only added another charm
To the cheerful hearth, secure and warm,
To hear on the roof and pane, the storm.

Sometimes Bethy would lightly say,
Partly in earnest, partly in play, --
"I wish it would never again be May!"

And he would answer, half pleased, half tried,
As he drew her nearer to his side,
"Nay, nay, for in spring I shall have my bride."

And she'd cry in a pretty childish pet,
"Ah! then you must have whom you can get;
I shall not marry for ages yet."

Then gravely he'd shake his head at this:
But things went never so far amiss
They were not righted at last by a kiss.

And so the seasons sped merry and fast,
And the budding spring-time came, and passed,
And the wedding day was set at last.

With never a quarrel, scarce a fear,
Each to the other growing more dear,
They kept their wooing a whole sweet year.





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