She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love.
The flower that smells the sweetest is shy and lowly.
Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind--But how could I forget thee?
Death is the quiet haven of us all.
The good die first, and they whose hearts are dry as summer dust, burn to the socket.
Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; And 'tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes.