Oh, that the road were longer,
A mile, or two, or three!
So might the thought grow stronger
That flows from touch of thee.
Oh little slumbering maid,
If thou wert five years older,
Thine head would not be laid
So simply on my shoulder!
Oh, would that I were younger,
Oh, were I more like thee,
I should not faintly hunger
For love that cannot be.
A girl might be caressed,
Beside me freely sitting;
A child on me might rest,
And not like thee, unwitting.
Such honour is thy mother's
Who smileth on thy sleep,
Or for the nurse who smothers
Thy cheek in kisses deep.
And but for parting day,
And but for forest shady,
From me they'd take away
The burden of their lady.
Ah thus to feel thee leaning
Above the nursemaid's hand,
Is like a stranger's gleaning,
Where rich men own the land;
Chance gains, and humble thrift,
With shyness much like thieving,
No notice with the gift,
No thanks with the receiving.
Oh peasant, when thou starvest
Outside the fair domain,
Imagine there's a harvest
In every treasured grain.
Make with thy thoughts high cheer,
Say grace for others dining,
And keep thy pittance clear
From poison of repining.
1859.