Classic Poem

I SAW it in my evening walk,
A little lonely flower!
Under a hollow bank it grew,
Deep in a mossy bower.

An oak's gnarled root, to roof the cave
With Gothic fretwork, sprung,
Whence jewelled fern, and arum leaves,
And ivy garlands, hung.

And from beneath came sparkling out,
From a fallen tree's old shell,
A little rill, that clipped about
The lady in her cell.

And there, methought, with bashful pride,
She seemed to sit, and look
On her own maiden loveliness,
Pale imaged in the brook.

No other flower — no rival grew
Beside my pensive maid;
She dwelt alone, a cloistered nun,
In solitude and shade.

No sunbeam on that fairy well
Darted its dazzling light;
Only, methought, some clear, cold star
Might tremble there at night.

No ruffling wind could reach her there;
No eye, methought but mine,
Or the young lambs' that came to drink,
Had spied her secret shrine.

And there was pleasantness to me
In such belief. Cold eyes,
That slight dear Nature's lowliness,
Profane her mysteries.

Long time I looked and lingered there,
Absorbed in still delight;
My spirit drank deep quietness
In with that quiet sight.