The serving girl

You are a peasant, mere maid by the day,
Humming in Gaelic sad songs while you dust,
I am a passer on paths of grey,
With a wallet half-worn for rhymes and a crust.

You who have eyes like stars lost in a wave,
A cadence to challenge dim nights of cloud,
I think you lean my chant of the grave,
Will weave with my passion wild web for a shroud.

John Millington Synge