The Pond

by Edna St. Vincent Millay

In this pond of placid water,
   Half a hundred years ago,
So they say, a farmer's daughter,
   Jilted by her farmer beau,

Waded out among the rushes,
   Scattering the blue dragon-flies;
That dried stick the ripple washes
   Marks the spot, I should surmise.

Think, so near the public highway,
   Well frequented even then!
Can you not conceive the sly way,—
   Hearing wheels or seeing men

Passing on the road above,—
   With a gesture feigned and silly,
Ere she drowned herself for love,
   She would reach to pluck a lily?

Monadnock Valley Press > Millay