The Maiden

Through a valley flows a gentle river,
Gently flows, with waters deep and clear;
In a flowery meadow, spreading near,
Silken leaves of slender poplars quiver.
There a quiet maiden singeth ever
Simple melodies of truth and love:
Pure and artless as the snowy dove,
Evil thought hath stained her bosom never.

Lovely, too, as rose but half unfolded;
Modest as that rose, when bent with dew:
Blue her eye, as heaven's own softest hue;
Lip as fresh as living ruby moulded.
Smiles she hath that tell of sunny feeling, —
Only smiles like hers such feeling tell;
Touch the chord of grief, and at the spell,
Tears of love and innocence are stealing.
Home and parent, kindred, friend and lover,
All embraced within this lonely vale, —
All beyond is to her but a tale:
This her world, and heaven just arches over.
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