Lovely Maid

Is't snow, or star, or wavelet,
In the valley's depth that plays?
'Tis neither—but a meteor
That sparkles—that betrays.

Neither snow, nor star, nor wavelet,
Is crown'd with ringlet hair;
But a maiden crown'd with ringlets,
Bathes in the streamlet there.

With grace beyond expression
She bows her lovely head;
Her hand holds up a flow'ret,
By those sweet waters fed.

The wind is whispering secrets
Into that maiden's ear;
The branches trembling round her,
Seem all attracted near.

How swiftly would I bend me,
Were I but one of these!
How fondly would I kiss her,
Were I a heavenly breeze!

Around her beauteous members,
Delighted fishes play;
The rivulet, hush'd to silence,
Long tarries on its way.

Still longer should I tarry,
Were I that silent stream;
But midst those fish to revel,
Would be the bliss supreme.

Ne'er would I leave those waters,
Where tread that maiden's feet
But kiss and kiss untiring,
And die in bliss so sweet.

But how! my eyes deceive me;
This dream—tho' bright it be—
Is but a mortal likeness
Of one less fair than she.

As in her beauteous shadow,
All earthly beauties fade;
So fades the maid's fair shadow,
Before the fairer maid.

'Twas but a feeble picture,
'Twas but a shadow rude,
That playing in the wavelets,
In maiden beauty stood.

Far lovelier in her sorrow,
On the ocean strand afar,
She stood—of love and feeling
The more than magic-star.