Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE WATER-BEARER, by ALICE CARY



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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE WATER-BEARER, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Twas in the middle of summer
Last Line: With a pail upon her head.
Subject(s): Grief


'T WAS in the middle of summer,
And burning hot the sun,
That Margaret sat on the low-roofed porch,
A-singing as she spun:

Singing a ditty of slighted love,
That shook with every note
The softly shining hair that fell
In ripples round her throat.

The changeful color of her cheek
At a breath would fall and rise,
And even th' sunny lights of hope
Made shadows in her eyes.

Beneath the snowy petticoat
You guessed the feet were bare,
By the slippers near her on the floor, --
A dainty little pair.

She loved the low and tender tones
The wearied summer yields,
When out of her wheaten leash she slips
And strays into frosty fields.

And better than th' time that all
The air with music fills,
She loved the little sheltered nest
Alive with yellow bills.

But why delay my tale, to make
A poem in her praise?
Enough that truth and virtue shone
In all her modest ways.

'T was noon-day when the housewife said,
"Now, Margaret, leave undone
Your task of spinning-work, and set
Your wheel out of the sun;

"And tie your slippers on, and take
The cedar-pail with bands
Yellow as gold, and bear to the field
Cool water for the hands!"

And Margaret set her wheel aside,
And breaking off her thread,
Went forth into the harvest-field
With her pail upon her head, --

Her pail of sweetest cedar-wood,
With shining yellow bands,
Through clover reaching its red tops
Almost into her hands.

Her ditty flowing on the air,
For she did not break her song,
And the water dripping o'er th' grass,
From her pail as she went along, --

Over the grass that said to her,
Trembling through all its leaves,
"A bright rose for some harvester
To bind among his sheaves!"

And clouds of gay green grasshoppers
Flew up the way she went,
And beat their wings against their sides,
And chirped their discontent.

And the blackbird left the piping of
His amorous, airy glee,
And put his head beneath his wing, --
An evil sign to see.

The meadow-herbs, as if they felt
Some secret wound, in showers
Shook down their bright buds till her way
Was ankle-deep with flowers.

But Margaret never heard th' voice
That sighed in th' grassy leaves,
"A bright rose for some harvester
To bind among his sheaves!"

Nor saw the clouds of grasshoppers
Along her path arise,
Nor th' daisy hang her head aside
And shut her golden eyes.

She never saw the blackbird when
He hushed his amorous glee,
And put his head beneath his wing, --
That evil sign to see.

Nor did she know the meadow-herbs
Shook down their buds in showers
To choke her pathway, though her feet
Were ankle-deep in flowers.

But humming still of slighted love,
That shook at every note
The softly shining hair that fell
In ripples round her throat,

She came 'twixt winrows heaped as high,
And higher than her waist,
And under a bush of sassafras
The cedar-pail she placed.

And with the drops like starry rain
A-glittering in her hair,
She gave to every harvester
His cool and grateful share.

But there was one with eyes so sweet
Beneath his shady brim,
That thrice within the cedar-pail
She dipped her cup for him!

What wonder if a young man's heart
Should feel her beauty's charm,
And in his fancy clasp her like
The sheaf within his arm;

What wonder if his tender looks,
That seemed the sweet disguise
Of sweeter things unsaid, should make
A picture in her eyes!

What wonder if the single rose
That graced her cheek erewhile,
Deepened its cloudy crimson, till
It doubled in his smile!

Ah me! the housewife never said,
Again, when Margaret spun, --
"Now leave your task a while, and set
Your wheel out of the sun;

"And tie your slippers on, and take
The pail with yellow bands,
And bear into the harvest-field
Cool water for the hands."

For every day, and twice a-day,
Did Margaret break her thread,
And singing, hasten to the field,
With her pail upon her head, --

Her pail of sweetest cedar-wood,
And shining yellow bands, --
For all her care was now to bear
Cool water to the hands.

What marvel if the young man's love
Unfolded leaf by leaf,
Until within his arms ere long
He clasped her like a sheaf!

What marvel if 't was Margaret's heart
With fondest hopes that beat,
While th' young man's fancy idly lay
As his sickle in the wheat.

That, while her thought flew, maidenlike,
To years of marriage bliss,
His lay like a bee in a flower, shut up
Within the moment's kiss!

What marvel if his love grew cold,
And fell off leaf by leaf,
And that her heart was choked to death,
Like the rose within his sheaf.

When autumn filled her lap with leaves,
Yellow, and cold, and wet,
The bands of th' pail turned black, and th' wheel
On the porch-side, idle set.

And Margaret's hair was combed and tied
Under a cap of lace,
And th' housewife held the baby up
To kiss her quiet face;

And all the sunburnt harvesters
Stood round the door, -- each one
Telling of some good word or deed
That she had said or done.

Nay, there was one that pulled about
His face his shady brim,
As if it were his kiss, not Death's,
That made her eyes so dim.

And while the tearful women told
That when they pinned her shroud,
One tress from th' ripples round her neck
Was gone, he wept aloud;

And answered, pulling down his brim
Until he could not see,
It was some ghost that stole the tress,
For that it was not he!

'T is years since on the cedar-pail
The yellow bands grew black, --
'T is years since in the harvest-field
They turned th' green sod back

To give poor Margaret room, and all
Who chance that way to pass,
May see at the head of her narrow bed
A bush of sassafras.

Yet often in the time o' th' year
When the hay is mown and spread,
There walks a maid in th' midnight shade
With a pail upon her head.





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