A Farm Walk Christina Rossetti

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,
Pathetically rustical,
        Too pointless for the city.

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;
Her clear unstudied notes were sweet
        As many a practised singer's.