‘Mistress, here is Phemie Blayne
Selling mushrooms once again;
Annie Logie came before
You had passed your chamber door,
So I filled the basket there—’
Mushrooms! Phemie Blayne! oh where?
With that I ran pell-mell down stair.
This was but trifling to restore
The interest of the day before,—
But there she stood,
Clothed in her beauty, plainly good.
Upon her auburn hair a hood,
Coarse perhaps, but white as milk,
Neater than the finest silk:
Tall and elastic, strong and free,
Like a blossoming apple-tree,
Earnest-eyed and womanly,
Yet little more than child to-day,
There stood she waiting patiently.
Phemie Blayne! I still can see
Thy queenhood, humbling then to me,
And wonder if thy destiny
Is good as God has been to thee.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem