Throngh tlie clouds of gold and purple, Slow the sun is sinking; Fetlock-deep witbin the river Stand the cattlo, drinking ; On tlie bridge above the mill-stream, Kests the maiden - thinkiug. Nut-brown hair that niocks the Lunset With its golden gleaming Hands above her pitcher folded, "iVith the graceful seeniing Of an antique-sculptured Nereid, Byafountain dreaming. As n tender thought had swayed her, O'er the streain she's leaning, While her red lipa curl and quiver With a sudden meaning, And a quick nod shakes her ringlets, All her features screening. For there comes a sound of laughtor, And a merry cheeriiig ; And the cattle turn their faces To a step that's Hearing - And slie waits for words low spoken In a tone eudearing. Low behind the western tree-tops Now the sun is sinking, Toward the biidge the weary caltle Turn themselves fiom drinkine - Ah ! they nërer guessed as I did, Whut the niaid was thinking.