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.