But afterward, belated in the wood,
  I saw her moping on the rifled tree,
And my heart smote me for her, while I stood
  Awakened from my careless reverie;
So white she looked, with moonlight round her shed. 
So motherlike she drooped and hung her head.

O that mine eyes would cheat me!  I behold
  The godwits running by the water edge,
Tim mossy bridges mirrored as of old;
  The little curlews creeping from the sedge,
But not the little foot so gayly light
O that mine eyes would cheat me, that I might!—­

Would cheat me!  I behold the gable ends—­
  Those purple pigeons clustering on the cote;
The lane with maples overhung, that bends
  Toward her dwelling; the dry grassy moat,
Thick mullions, diamond-latticed, mossed and gray,
And walls bunked up with laurel and with bay.

And up behind them yellow fields of corn,
  And still ascending countless firry spires,
Dry slopes of hills uncultured, bare, forlorn,
  And green in rocky clefts with whins and briers;
Then rich cloud masses dyed the violet’s hue,
With orange sunbeams dropping swiftly through.

Ay, I behold all this full easily;
  My soul is jealous of my happier eyes. 
And manhood envies youth.  Ah, strange to see,
  By looking merely, orange-flooded skies;
Nay, any dew-drop that may near me shine: 
But never more the face of Eglantine!

She was my one companion, being herself
  The jewel and adornment of my days,
My life’s completeness.  O, a smiling elf,
  That I do but disparage with my praise—­
My playmate; and I loved her dearly and long,
And she loved me, as the tender love the strong.

Ay, but she grew, till on a time there came
  A sudden restless yearning to my heart;
And as we went a-nesting, all for shame
  And shyness, I did hold my peace, and start;
Content departed, comfort shut me out,
And there was nothing left to talk about.

She had but sixteen years, and as for me,
  Four added made my life.  This pretty bird,
This fairy bird that I had cherished—­she,
  Content, had sung, while I, contented, heard. 
The song had ceased; the bird, with nature’s art,
Had brought a thorn and set it in my heart.

The restless birth of love my soul opprest,
  I longed and wrestled for a tranquil day,
And warred with that disquiet in my breast
  As one who knows there is a better way;
But, turned against myself, I still in vain
Looked for the ancient calm to come again.

My tired soul could to itself confess
  That she deserved a wiser love than mine;
To love more truly were to love her less,
  And for this truth I still awoke to pine;
I had a dim belief that it would be
A better thing for her, a blessed thing for me.

Good hast Thou made them—­comforters right sweet;
  Good hast Thou made the world, to mankind lent;
Good are Thy dropping clouds that feed the wheat;
  Good are Thy stars above the firmament. 
Take to Thee, take, Thy worship, Thy renown;
The good which Thou hast made doth wear Thy crown.