PRIMROSE. 
73 
A little rill, that dipt about * 
The lady in her cell. 
And there, methought, with bashful pride, 
She seem’d to sit and look, 
On her own maiden loveliness, 
Pale imaged in the brook. 
No other flower, no rival grew 
Beside my pensive maid ; 
She dwelt alone, a cloistered nun 
In solitude and shade. 
No sunbeam on that fairy pool, 
Darted its dazzling light; 
l Only, methought, some clear, cold star 
Might tremble there at night. 
No ruffling wind could reach her there, 
No eye, methought, but mine ; 
Or the young lambs that came to drink, 
Had spied her secret shrine. 
And there was pleasantness to me 
In such belief—cold eyes 
That slight dear Nature’s loveliness, 
Profane her mysteries. 
Long time I looked and lingered there, 
Absorbed in still delight; 
My spirit drank deep quietness. 
In with that quiet sight. 
