Yet call thee nothing but the mere, mild moon,
Behind those chesnut boughs
Casting their dappled shadows at my feet;
I will be grateful for that simple boon
In many a thoughtful verse, and anthem sweet,
And bless thy dainty face whene'er we meet.
"So let it be: before I lived to sigh,
Thou wert in Avon, and a thousand rills,
Beautiful Dian! and so whene'er I lie
Trodden, thou wilt be gazing from thy hills.