O the days were weary! weary! And the eves were dull and long, With the cricket's chirp of sorrow, And the owlet's mournful song. But in slumber oft she started In the still and lonesome nights, Hearing but the traveller's footstep Hurrying toward the village lights. So, moaned by the dreary winter-- All her household tasks fulfilled-- Till beneath the last year's rafters Came the swallows back to build. Meadow-pinks, like flakes of crimson, Over all the valleys lay, And again were oxen ploughing Up and down the hills all day. Thus the dim days dawned and faded To the maid, forsaken, lorn, Till the freshening breeze of summer Shook the tassels of the corn. Ever now within her chamber All night long the lamp-light shines, But no white hand from her casement Pushes back the heavy vines. On her cheek a fire was feeding, And her hand transparent grew-- Ah, the faithless Allan Archer! More than she had dreamed was true. No complaint was ever uttered, Only to herself she sighed,-- As she read of wretched poets Who had pined of love and died. Once she crushed the sudden crying From her trembling lips away, When they said the vintage harvest Had been gathered in that day Often, when they kissed her, smiled she, Saying that it soothed her pain, And that they must not be saddened-- She would soon be well again! Thus nor hoping nor yet fearing, Meekly bore she all her pain. Till the red leaves of the autumn Withered from the woods again; Till the bird had hushed its singing In the silvery sycamore, And the nest was left unsheltered In the lilac by the door; Saying, still, that she was happy-- None so much as she was blest-- None, of all the many maidens In the Valley of the West. III.