A meadow gleaming in the sun,
A robin perched on a topmost limb,
A harvest moon through a forest dun,
A boat adrift on a waveless sea,
A dream of Venice flitting by, -
These beauties all I now recall,
As I look in your deep blue eye!
A quiet smile on a rosy cheek;
A modesty, grace, and wit that blend;
A glance drawn up from the nethermost heart, -
There is the portrait of my friend!
A peasant's heart may thrill and throb
As he catches the words of a lady's song, -
He at his work in the meadow lands,
She in her hall, - and is it wrong?
If I love the fields and the sky and the sea,
And all that's fairest in Nature's shrine,
Must I shut my eyes, and turn away
My worshipping gaze from that face of thine?