A SELLER OF HERBS
(A RHYME OF A BALTIMORE MARKET)
BLACK, comely, of abiding cheer, Three times a week she fares, Townward from gabled Windermere, To sell her dainty wares.
Green balms she brings from winding lanes, And some in handfuls tall, Of the old days of Annes and Janes Grown by a kitchen wall.
Keen mint has she in dewy sprigs, With spears of violet; And the spiced bloom of eider-twigs In a field's hollow set.
My snatch of May I get from her, In white buds off a tree; June in one whiff of lavender, That breaks my heart for me.
The swaying boughs of Windermere, Each gust that takes the grass,