Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, DOVECOTT MILL: 11. WEDDED, by PHOEBE CARY


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

DOVECOTT MILL: 11. WEDDED, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: In the village church where a child she was led
Last Line: And powders her pretty face and lips.
Subject(s): Marriage; Weddings; Husbands; Wives


In the village church where a child she was led,
Where a maiden she sang in the choir o'erhead,
There were Bethy and Robert wed.

Strong, yet tender and good looked he,
As he took her almost reverently,
And she was a pleasant sight to see.

And men and women, far and wide,
Came from village and country side
To wish them joy and to greet the bride.

The friends who knew them since they were born,
Each with his best and bravest worn
Did honor to them on their marriage morn.

But one at the church was heard to say:
"The Squire, whom none has seen to-day,
Might have given the bride away,

"Yet his is a face 't were best to miss;
And what could he do at a time like this,
But be a cloud on its happiness?

"So let him stay with his gloom and pride,
For he is not fit to sit beside
The wedding guests, or to kiss the bride."

But Bethy, her heart was soft you know,
To herself, as she heard it, whispered low,
"Who knows what sorrow has made him so?"

And looking away towards the gloomy hall,
And then at the bridegroom fine and tall,
She said, "I wish he had come for all!"

Home through the green and shady lane,
The way their childish feet had ta'en,
They came as man and wife again.

Just to the low old cottage here,
Among the friends and places dear
(For the gardener was not dead a year).

And why, as the great do, should they range?
They needs must find enough of change,
They are come to a world that is new and strange.

Lovingly eventide comes on,
The feast is eaten, the friends are gone,
And wife and husband are left alone.

In kindly parting they have prest
The hand of every lingering guest,
And now they shut us out with the rest.

Oh, joy too sacred to look upon,
The very angels may leave alone,
Two happy souls by love made one!

But whatever they gain or whatever they miss,
The poor have no time in a world like this,
To waste in sorrow or happiness.

For men who have their bread to earn
Must plant and gather and grind the corn,
And the miller goes to the mill at morn.

He blushes a little, it may be,
As with jokes about his family
The rough hands tease him merrily.

But lightly, gayly, as he replies,
A braver, prouder light in his eyes
Shows that he loves and can guard his prize.

And the voice o'er the roar of the mill-wheel heard,
In the house is as soft in every word,
As if the wife were some timid bird;

And he strokes her hair as we handle such
Dear things that we love to pet so much,
And yet are half afraid to touch.

And Bethy, pretty, young, and gay,
Trying the strange new matron way,
Seems to "make believe," like a child at play,

In and out the whole day long,
At work in the house, or her flowers among,
You scarce can hear the birds for her song.

Though many times does she steal, I ween,
A glance at the mill, the blinds between,
Blushing, and careful not to be seen.

But busy with sewing, broom, or meal,
Swiftly away the moments steal,
And she hears the last slow turn of the wheel.

And the miller glad, but tired and slow,
Comes, looking white as the man of snow
They made in the winter, long ago.

Oft the cottage door is opened wide,
Before his hand the latch has tried,
By the eager wife who waits inside.

Though sometimes out from a hiding-place,
She slyly peeps, when he comes, to trace
The puzzled wonder of his face.

And she loves to see the glad surprise,
That, when from her secret nook she flies,
Shines in his happy, laughing eyes.

And he, before from his hand she slips,
Leaves the mark on her waist of finger tips,
And powders her pretty face and lips.





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