"O No, sweet Lady, not to thee
That set and chilling tone,
By which the feelings on themselves
So utterly are thrown,
For mine has sprung upon my lips,
Impatient to express
The haunting charm of thy sweet voice
And gentlest loveliness.
A very fairy queen thou art,
Whose only spells are on the heart.

The garden it has many a flower,
But only one for thee--
The early graced of Grecian song,
The fragant myrtle tree;
For it doth speak of happy love,
The delicate, the true.
If its pearl buds are fair like thee,
They seem as fragile too;
Likeness, not omens; for love's power
Will watch his own most precious flower.

Thou art not of that wilder race
Upon the mountain side,
Able alike the summer sun
And winter blast to bide;
But thou art of that gentle growth
Which asks some loving eye