Swift its trillion-footed flood,
Winding ways to follow.
Coy and still when flying wheel
Rested from its labour;
Singing when it ground the meal
Gay as lute or tabor.
"Bouche-Mignonne" it called, when, red
In the dawn were glowing,
Eaves and mill-wheel, "leave thy bed,
"Hark to me a-flowing!"

Bouche-Mignonne awoke and quick
Glossy tresses braided;
Curious sunbeams cluster'd thick
Vines her casement shaded.
Deep with leaves and blossoms white
Of the morning glory,
Shaking all their banners bright
From the mill, eaves hoary.
Swallows turn'd glossy throats,
Timorous, uncertain,
When to hear their matin notes,
Peep'd she thro' her curtain,
Shook the mill-stream sweet and clear,
With its silver laughter--
Shook the mill from flooring sere
Up to oaken ratter.
"Bouche-Mignonne" it cried "come down!
"Other flowers are stirring;
"Pierre with fingers strong and brown