Ellen Hanging Clothes

The maid is out in the clear April light Our store of linen hanging up to dry; On clump of box, on the small grass there lie Bits of thin lace, and broidery blossom-white. And something makes tall Ellen — gesture, look — Or else but that most ancient, simple thing, Hanging the clothes upon a day in spring, A Greek girl cut out some old lovely book. The wet white flaps ; a tune just come in mind, The sound brims the still house. Our flags are out, Blue by the box, blue by the kitchen stair; Betwixt the two she trips across the wind, Her warm hair blown all cloudy-wise about, Slim as the flags, and every whit as fair.