Young Harry leapt over the stile and kissed her,
Over the stile when the sun was sinking;
’T was only Carrie; just Mary’s sister!—
And love hath a way of thinking.
“Thy pail, sweetheart, I will take and carry.”
Over the stile one star hung yellow.—
“Just to the spring, my dearest Harry.”—
And Love is a heartless fellow.
“Thou saidst me ‘yea’ in an April shower
Under this tree with leaves a-quiver.”—
“I say thee nay now the cherry ’s in flower,
And love is taker and giver.”
“O false! thou art false to me, sweetheart!”—
The light in her eyes grew trist and trister:
“To thee, the stars, and myself, sweetheart,
I never was aught but Mary’s sister.
“Sweet Mary’s sister! just little Carrie!—
But what avail my words or weeping?—
Next month, perhaps, you two will marry—
And I in my grave be sleeping.”
Alone she stands ’mid the meadow millet,
Wan as the petals the wind is strewing:
Some tears in her pail as she stoops to fill it—
And love hath a way of doing.