She happed her shawl about her head;
And clattered quickly down the hill,
Among the other hands who trudged
With clacking clogs towards the mill.

From other shawls, young voices called,
With laughing words and quick replies:
And, now and then, the dawning light
Showed a bright glint of teeth and eyes.

But not a word for anyone
Had she; nor did she lift her head
To greet the light: but brooded still,
Within her shawl, on what he'd said —

Those fatal words that, though he'd tried,
Ashamed too late, to take them back,
In the dark hollow of her brain
Kept clacking with the clogs' clack-clack.