The Miller’s Daughter

…from the quills of the dead white poets

Alfred Tennyson (1809 – 1892)

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It is the miller’s daughter,

And she is grown so dear, so dear,

That I would be the jewel

That trembles in her ear;

For hid in ringlets day and night,

I’d touch her neck so warm and white.

And I would be the girdle

About her dainty dainty waist,

And her heart would beat against me,

In sorrow and I in rest;

And I should know if it beat right,

I’d clasp it round so close and tight.

And I would be the necklace,

And all day long to fall and rise

Upon her balmy bosom,

With her laughter or her sighs;

And I would lie so light, so light,

I scarce should be unclasp’d at night.

Love that hath us in the net,

Can he pass, and we forget?

Many suns arise and set;

Many a chance the years beget;

Love the gift is Love the debt.

Even so.

Love is hurt, with jar and fret;

Love is made a vague regret;

Eyes with idle tears are wet;

Idle habit links us yet.

What is love? for we forget:

Ah, no! no!

About Paul Jacko

Jacko was born in Czechoslovakia not long before the communist putsch in February 1948. He studied industrial chemistry there and left in 1969 for Australia, where he became a lawyer and established his own practice. He has now retired and beside hunting, fishing, camping, prospecting and playing golf he amuses himself by writing.
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