The maid is out in the soft April light, Our store of linen hanging up to dry; On clump of box, on the small grass there lie Bits of thin lace, and broidery blossom-white. And something makes tall Ellen -- air or look -- Or else but that most ancient, simple thing, Hanging the clothes upon a day in spring, Like to a Greek girl cut out an old book. The wet white flaps; a tune just come to mind, The sound brims the still rooms. Our flags are out, Blue by the box, blue by the kitchen stair; Betwixt the twain she trips across the wind, Her warm hair blown all cloudy-wise about, Slim as the flags, and every whit as fair. |