IV.
But, pale as her cheek is, there's fruit on her lip,
And her teeth flash as white as the crescent moon's tip,
And her form and her step like the red-deer's go past—
As lightsome, as lovely, as haughty, as fast.
V.
I saw her but once, and I looked in her eye,
And she knew that I worshipped in passing her by;
The saint of the wayside—she granted my prayer,
Though we spoke not a word, for her mother was there.