Far from bustle, strife, and care,
‘Mong the woods I’ve wooed her.
And to her secluded nook,
By the margin of a brook,
And by waters bright and blue,
Over meadows wet with dew,
Many a time pursued her:
And far away in forests lone,
Listening to the rugged tone
Of the windy weather,
She and I, at midnight’s time,
Have sat and sung together.
Poor she is in things of earth,
Poor in worldly treasure,
But she hath a smile of light.
And an eye of hazel bright,
Beaming love and pleasure.
A forest maid, she loves to dwell
In her solitary cell.
Nursing, in her still retreat.
All the passions mild and sweet;
And breathing many a plaintive ditty
Of Hope, and Joy, and Love, and Pity.
She is a fair and woodland nymph,
A wild and artless mountain beauty.
Whose witching tongue
Doth lure the young
From lucre and their duty.
This nymph so poor, and yet so free,
Who can she be but Poesy?