Ah! What are those times when the cattle grazed,

The times when the hot and sun blazed,

What were those times when the moonlight hazed,

And......her face rode over the moon that glazed.

Wherever I go, her face that flows,

Everywhere, like the sway of soft dandelions,

That blooms forth once a twelvemonth,

Haunts me, like a blithe reminiscence,

As I still move about the soils, of the bosky gardens,

The wall in front leads to that bower,

Where I peeped as a child, in my village days,

And saw the combs, brushing through hairs;

Alas! That bower is empty, compact of sprites,

The windows remain closed, barred from heavenly nature,

But as I still go there, to dream during day,

The quatrefoil above, still bears her pate.