On The Moor
By Cale Young Rice
I met a child upon the moor
A-wading down the heather;
She put her hand into my own,
We crossed the fields together.
I led her to her father’s door—
A cottage midst the clover.
I left her—and the world grew poor
To me, a childless rover.
I met a maid upon the moor,
The morrow was her wedding.
Love lit her eyes with lovelier hues
Than the eve-star was shedding.
She looked a sweet good-bye to me,
And o’er the stile went singing.
Down all the lonely night I heard
But bridal bells a-ringing.
I met a mother on the moor,
By a new grave a-praying.
The happy swallows in the blue
Upon the winds were playing.
“Would I were in his grave,” I said,
“And he beside her standing!”
There was no heart to break if death
For me had made demanding.