Lady of the Mere, Sole-sitting by the shores of old romance.
Alas! how little can a moment show Of an eye where feeling plays In ten thousand dewy rays: A face o'er which a thousand shadows go!
The harvest of a quiet eye, That broods and sleeps on his own heart.
Fear is a cloak which old men huddle about their love, as if to keep it warm.
Prompt to move but firm to wait - knowing things rashly sought are rarely found.
She gave me eyes, she gave me ears; And humble cares, and delicate fears; A heart, the fountain of sweet tears; And love and thought and joy.