I met a fair maiden, I saw her plain,
In the five-acre when the corn was mellow,
Counting her fingers again and again,
Her kirtle was green, her hair was yellow,
“Oh, what are you counting, fair maid?” said I,
“Counting, I will be bound, your treasures?”
“Oh no, kind sir,” she made sad reply,
“Counting, for penance, my unshared pleasures.”
Her head was bent low, and slowly went she;
If she goes on straight, she must come to the sea!
Blow, blow, south wind, the year’s on the turn;
Creep, little blue-bell, close under the fern!
I hope that the penance the little maid is doing
Will be finished before winter comes with rattle, rain, and ruin?
“Oh yes, kind sir, my penance will be over”
(She told me in a dream last night, I know it will come true),
“Come and look for me next summer, when the bee is in the clover,
And I will share my pleasures then with you, you, you!”