At The Stile

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Young Harry leapt over the stile and kissed her,
  Over the stile the stars a-winking;
  He thought it was Mary--'t was Mary's sister--
  And love hath a way of thinking.

  "Thy pail, sweetheart, I will take and carry."--
  Over the stile the stars hang yellow.--
  "Just to the spring, my sweetheart Harry."--
  And love is a heartless fellow.

  "Thou saidst me _yea_ when the frost did shower
  Over the stile from stars a-shiver."--
  "I say thee _nay_ now the cherry-trees flower,
  And love is taker and giver."

  "O false! thou art false to me, sweetheart!"--
  Over the stile the stars a-glister.
  "To thee, the stars, and myself, sweetheart,
  I never was aught save Mary's sister.

  "Sweet Mary's sister and thou my Harry,
  Her Harry and mine, but mine the weeping:
  In a month or twain you two will marry--
  And I in my grave be sleeping."

  Alone among the meadows of millet,
  Over the stile the stars pursuing,
  Some tears in her pail as she stoops to fill it--
  And love hath a way of doing.

© Madison Julius Cawein