Tell me the star from which she fell,
Oh! name the flower
From out whose wild and perfumed bell
At witching hour,
Sprang forth this fair and fairy maiden
Like a bee with honey laden.

They say that those sweet lips of thine
Breathe not to speak:
Thy very ears that seem so fine
No sound can seek,
And yet thy face beams with emotion,
Restless as the waves of ocean.

'Tis well. Thy face and form agree,
And both are fair.
I would not that this child should be
As others are:
I love to mark her indecision,
Smiling with seraphic vision

At our poor gifts of vulgar sense
That cannot stain
Nor mar her mystic innocence,
Nor cloud her brain
With all the dreams of worldly folly,
And its creature melancholy.

To thee! dedicate these lines,
Yet read them not.
Cursed be the art that e'er refines
Thy natural lot:
Read the bright stars and read the flowers,
And hold converse with the bowers.