One, a queenly maiden fair,
Sweepeth past me with an air,
Kings might kneel beneath her stare.
Round her heart, a rosebud free,
Reeled I, like a drunken bee;
Alas! it would not ope to me.
One comes shining like a saint,
But her face I cannot paint,
For mine eyes and blood grow faint.
Eyes are dimmed as by a tear,
Sounds are ringing in mine ear,
I feel only, she is here,
That she laugheth where she stands,
That she mocketh with her hands;
I am bound in tighter bands.
Laid 'mong faintest blooms is one,
Singing in the setting sun,
And her song is never done.
She was born 'mong water-mills;
She grew up 'mong flowers and rills,
In the hearts of distant hills.
There, into her being stole
Nature, and embued the whole,
And illumed her face and soul.
She grew fairer than her peers;
Still her gentle forehead wears
Holy lights of infant years.
Her blue eyes, so mild and meek,
She uplifteth, when I speak,
Lo! the blushes mount her cheek.