Love I to note the well-filled threshing-floor,
The peasant’s hut, half hidden in the straw,
The shutters with quaint carvings covered o’er;
And with no less delight, on holiday,
From dewy eve till noon of night, to gaze
Upon the dance, with stamp and whistling gay,
Amid the roar the merry rustics raise.
TO ——.
We stand apart, yet still thy pictured face
I fondly press to this sad heart of mine—