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In the cool morning twilight, early waked
By her full bosom's joyless restlessness,
Leaving the soft bed to her sleeping sister,
Softly she rose, and lightly stole along,
Down the slope coppice to the woodbine bower,
Whose rich flowers, swinging in the morning breeze,
Over their dim fast-moving shadows hung,
Making a quiet image of disquiet
In the smooth, scarcely moving river-pool.
There, in that bower where first she own'd her love,
And let me kiss my own warm tear of joy
From off her glowing cheek, she sate and stretch'd
The silk upon the frame, and work'd her name
Between the Moss-Rose and Forget-me-not—
Her own dear name, with her own auburn hair!
That forc'd to wander till sweet spring return,
I yet might ne'er forget her smile, her look,
Her voice, (that even in her mirthful mood
Has made me wish to steal away and weep,)
Nor yet th' entrancement of that maiden kiss
With which she promis'd, that when spring return'd,
She would resign one half of that dear name,
And own thenceforth no other name but mine!
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