Perhaps A Maiden's Bashfulness Is More A

We Come From The Earth, We Return To The Earth, And In Between We Garden.

The Bright Incarnate Spirit Of The Morn.

Where Has Thou Been All The Dumb Winter Days When Neither Sunlight Was Nor Smile Of Flowers, Neither Life, Nor Love, Nor Frolic, Only Expanse Melancholic, With Never A Note Of Thy Exhilarating Lays?

Faded Smiles Oft Linger In The Face, While Grief's First Flakes Fall Silent On The Heart!

My Virgin Sense Of Sound Was Steeped In The Music Of Young Streams; And Roses Through The Casement Peeped, And Scented All My Dreams.