They stood within the dairy door,
And gazed across the green;
The church loomed on the distant moor,
But rain was thick between.
`The grass-path hardly can be stepped,
The lane is like a pool!`-
Her dream is shown to be inept,
Her wish they overrule.
All day the bride, as overborne,
Was seen to brood apart,
And that the shoes had not been worn
Sat heavy on her heart.
From her wrecked dream, as months flew on,
Her thought seemed not to range.
`What ails the wife,` they said anon,
`That she should be so strange?`...
Ah - what coach comes with furtive glide -
A coach of closed-up kind?
It comes to fetch the last year`s bride,
Who wanders in her mind.
She mounted with a face elate,
Shut was the carriage door;
They drove her to the madhouse gate,
And she was seen no more...
Yet she was fair as early day
Shining on meads unmown,
And her sweet syllables seemed to play
Like lute-notes softly blown.