Among the Millet

by Archibald Lampman




What days await this woman, whose strange feet
    Breathe spells, whose presence makes men dream like wine,
    Tall, free and slender as the forest pine,
Whose form is moulded music, through whose sweet
Frank eyes I feel the very heartís least beat,                               5
    Keen, passionate, full of dreams and fire:
    How in the end, and to what manís desire
Shall all this yield, whose lips shall these lips meet?

One thing I know: if he be great and pure,
This love, this fire, this beauty shall endure;                               10
    Triumph and hope shall lead him by the palm:
But if not this, some differing thing he be,
That dream shall break in terror; he shall see
    The whirlwind ripen, where he sowed the calm.