A Most Poignant Poem

I have often reflected upon the highly evocative poem, Maude Muller, by John Greenleaf Whittier (1807-1892).  Perhaps it is because, as I freely admit, I am stuck in veneration of the nobility of character of my 19^th Century heroes -- all of whom were born less than two decades apart and who contributed so greatly to my mind-set, education, and personality.  

Abraham Lincoln (1809-1865);  Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882); Joseph Smith Jr. (1805-1844); Brigham Young (1801-1877); Henry David Thoreau (1817-1862); Walt Whitman (1819-1892); Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882) and, of course Whittier were among those giants who left footprints in my soul.

Whittier’s poem, Maude Muller, tells a tale of two young people miles apart on the social scale, but ever so close on the register of their hearts.  It is presented here in highly redacted form:

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A rich young judge riding on his magnificent steed and a poor but fetching farm girl met, by chance (?) in a meadow on a warm summer’s day. 

The maiden sang as she raked her hay and then

The sweet song died, and a vague unrest

And a nameless longing filled her breast,—

A wish that she hardly dared to own,

For something better than she had known.

The young people talked briefly as she supplied him with a drink of water from the brook, and then the young man reluctantly took his leave.

The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill,

And saw Maud Muller standing still.

"A form more fair, a face more sweet,

Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet.

"And her modest answer and graceful air

Show her wise and good as she is fair.

"Would she were mine, and I to-day, Like her, a harvester of hay:

In later years the rich young man who married a vain and spoiled woman would often think back on this encounter.  And the maiden, who married another and lived a life of poverty and unrequited hopes did likewise.

A manly form at her side she saw, And joy was duty and love was law.    Then she took up her burden of life again, Saying only, "It might have been."  100    Alas for maiden, alas for Judge, For rich repiner and household drudge!    God pity them both! and pity us all, Who vainly the dreams of youth recall.    For of all sad words of tongue or pen,  105 The saddest are these: "It might have been!"    Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope lies Deeply buried from human eyes;    And, in the hereafter, angels may Roll the stone from its grave away!