Her lovely face I picture from my mind....
Oft hath her living likeness met my sight, (Oh who'll believe the word?) in waters clear,
On beechen stems, on some green lawny space,
Or in white cloud....
Her loveliest portrait there my fancy draws,
And when Truth overawes
That sweet delusion, frozen to the core,
I then sit down, on living rock, dead stone,
And seem to muse, and weep and write thereon....
Then touch my thoughts and sense