The Milking-Maid (Mjölkpigan)

The year stood at its equinox,
And bluff the North was blowing.
A bleat of lambs came from the flocks,
Green hardy things were growing.
I met a maid with shining locks,
Where milky kine were lowing.

She wore a kerchief on her neck,
Her bare arm showed its dimple.
Her apron spread without a speck,
Her air was frank and simple.

She milked into a wooden pail,
And sang a country ditty -
An innocent fond lovers' tale,
That was not wise nor witty.

She kept in time without a beat,
As true as church-bell ringers,
Unless she tapped time with her feet,
Or squeezed it with her fingers.

I stood a minute out of sight,
Stood silent for a minute,
To eye the pail, and creamy white
The frothing milk within it.

To eye the comely milking maid,
Herself so fresh and creamy.
“Good day to you!” at last I said,
She turned her head to see me.
“Good day!” she said with lifted head,
Her eyes looked soft and dreamy.

And all the while she milked and milked
The grave cow heavy-laden.
I've seen grand ladies, plumed and silked,
But not a sweeter maiden.

But not a sweeter fresher maid
Than this in homely cotton,
Whose pleasant face and silky braid
I have not yet forgotten.

Perhaps my rose is overblown,
Not rosy or too rosy.
Perhaps in farmhouse of her own
Some husband keeps her cosy.
Where I should show a face unknown? -
Good bye, my wayside posy!