Sonnet XII

 Like as a dryad, from her native bole 
Coming at dusk, when the dim stars emerge, 
To a slow river at whose silent verge 
Tall poplars tremble and deep grasses roll, 
Come thou no less and, kneeling in a shoal 
Of the freaked flag and meadow buttercup, 
Bend till thine image from the pool beam up 
Arched with blue heaven like an aureole.
 
See how adorable in fancy then 
Lives the fair face it mirrors even so, 
O thou whose beauty moving among men 
Is like the wind's way on the woods below, 
Filling all nature where its pathway lies 
With arms that supplicate and trembling sighs.

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