A Love Song to the River Maiden

If nature in all her glory were stilled,

And placed well upon thine fresh almond eyes,

Then but one pierced gaze upon me be spilled,

And all else treasures mine heart would despise.

Thy poise and spirit as the river's flow,
Winding wildly to some yet unknown end.

With each wave of splendor thy loveliness grow,

And upon such the crevice thy frame bend.

For what could contain thy morning fragrance,

As the dew alighted upon the fresh summer rose?

As Spring doth begin her restitute dance,

So well my love for thee innocent grows.

Could God but cast in a figure so quaint

Of the natural order of His earth,

Then wipe from thy face the freshly paint,

Splattered upon thee at thy dear birth.

Should the morning birds in such their rhyme

Not stop to hear thy voice's sweet gleam?

Thy speech art the song, the sweetest chime

That men doth perceive upon a dream.

When'st shall the oak in the autumn's wind,

Outdo the gentleness in thy soul?
Or shall the rain fair 'pon me descend,

Wash me greater than thy presence whole?

Ought the stars to shine any brighter,

Then thy jeweled eyes set upon thy skin?

Or the moon reflect to earth whiter

Than that pure light wrought upon thy grin?

Then, should all of these properties stilled,

Be greater than thy beauty, my dear,

Then never was Rome to ever build

Or my words upon this page appear.