A seller of herbs

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,
High over the town roar I hear,
When that old stall I pass.

What homely memories are mine,
At sight of her quaint stalks;
Of grave dusks mellowing like wine
Down long, box-bordered walks;

Of garret windows eastward thrust,
Of rafters showing dim,
And heaped with herbs as gray as dust,
A11 scented to the brim.

This lady of the market-place,
Three times a week and more,
I pray her seasons thick with grace;
And ever at her door,

Shut from the road by wall of stone,
And ample cherry-trees,
A garden fair as Herrick's own,
And just as full of bees!