Except  as  the  thing    that  we  love  is

ours  by  a  right  divine,
Except  as  the  beauty  of  nature  is  his

who  has  eyes  to  see,
Though  not  an  acre  he  owns,  nor  so

much  as  a  bush  or  a  tree  ;
And  so  my  Lizzie  is  mine  by  the  love

which  for  her  I  bore,
Yea,  a  possession  which   nothing  can

rob  me  of  evermore.
Perhaps  I  should  tell  you  the  story :

it  is  an  old  one  now,
And  it  calls  up  things  that  are  best  left

sleeping,  I  think  ;  for  they  grow
Into  hard  thoughts  when  you  stir  them,

mudding  your  life  again.
Just  when  it  seems  to  be  settling,  and

clearing  off  sorrow  and  pain.
No  matter  ;  you  have  a  right  to  know

what  it  all  may  mean.
For  you  are  my  friend,  and  a  friend

should  see  what  there  is  to  be  seen  :
One  should  have  no  dark  closets  locked

in  his  heart  to  hide
Aught  from  the  wife  of  his  bosom,  or

from  the  friend  he  has  tried.
It  is  some  ten  years  now  since  Lizzie
— Pet's  mother,  you  know —

Came  to  be  servant  at  Blavick — that's
the  next  farm  as  you  go

Landward,  maybe  a  mile  hence ;
perched  on  a  bit  of  a  hill


Down  which  brattles  the  brook  that

drives  the  wheel  of  our  mill ;
Worst    farmed    land     hereabout,     all

scarred  like  a  pock-pitted  face
Grey  and  unwholesome   to    look   at ;

poor  soil  it  is  at  the  best.
But  starved  too,  for  money  is  scarce

there,    and    work    not    so    pleasant

as   rest.
Anyhow  Lizzie  came  there,  at  Lammas

some  ten  years  past.
