In thee alone that maiden, Thought, afraid
And hurt by even a passing cloud, may speak,
Yet keep her modest veil, and sheltered be.
Who knows the mysteries that a child may hear
And utter in thy sighs divine, like thee
Born of the air he breathes, sweet as his voice,
And sad as his sad heart? A glance, a tear
Is seen, yet all the rest is mystery
Unknown to the careless world, like that of waves,
Of night, or of the unfathomed wilderness...