Sonnet 106

Tell me, ye reapers, tell me have ye found,
While binding up your sheaves of golden corn,
A little, laughing, lovely boy, around
Whose curly locks a harvest-wreath is bound?
Ye shepherds, who with dew-damp feet, at morn
Track your white lambs—say have ye seen forlorn
A gentle joyous child, that o'er the ground
Trips sportively? Ye forests, that adorn
The mountains—ye sweet birds—ye flowing rills—
Ye list'ning rocks—heard ye that voice's sound,
Whose strain of music thro' creation thrills?
If ye have seen not—heard not—pity me—
Help me to find the maid I love—and be
Milder than unrelenting destiny.