So my Lady holds her own
With condescending grace,
and fills her lofty place
With an untroubled face
As a queen may fill a throne. 
While I could hint a tale—­
(But then I am her child)—­
Would make her quail; 400
Would set her in the dust,
Lorn with no comforter,
Her glorious hair defiled
And ashes on her cheek: 
The decent world would thrust
Its finger out at her,
Not much displeased I think
To make a nine days’ stir;
The decent world would sink
Its voice to speak of her. 410

Now this is what I mean
To do, no more, no less: 
Never to speak, or show
Bare sign of what I know. 
Let the blot pass unseen;
Yea, let her never guess
I hold the tangled clue
She huddles out of view. 
Friend, servant, almost child,
So be it and nothing more 420
On this side of the grave. 
Mother, in Paradise,
You’ll see with clearer eyes;
Perhaps in this world even
When you are like to die
And face to face with Heaven
You’ll drop for once the lie: 
But you must drop the mask, not I.

My Lady promises
Two hundred pounds with me 430
Whenever I may wed
A man she can approve: 
And since besides her bounty
I’m fairest in the county
(For so I’ve heard it said,
Though I don’t vouch for this),
Her promised pounds may move
Some honest man to see
My virtues and my beauties;
Perhaps the rising grazier, 440
Or temperance publican,
May claim my wifely duties. 
Meanwhile I wait their leisure
And grace-bestowing pleasure,
I wait the happy man;
But if I hold my head
And pitch my expectations
Just higher than their level,
They must fall back on patience: 
I may not mean to wed, 450
Yet I’ll be civil.

Now sometimes in a dream
My heart goes out of me
To build and scheme,
Till I sob after things that seem
So pleasant in a dream: 
A home such as I see
My blessed neighbours live in
With father and with mother,
All proud of one another, 460
Named by one common name
From baby in the bud
To full-blown workman father;
It’s little short of Heaven. 
I’d give my gentle blood
To wash my special shame
And drown my private grudge;
I’d toil and moil much rather
The dingiest cottage drudge
Whose mother need not blush, 470
Than live here like a lady
And see my Mother flush
And hear her voice unsteady
Sometimes, yet never dare
Ask to share her care.