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?