I'll court thy lone bow'r, Sensibility!
And mark thy lovely form, wild waving hair,
Thy loosely flowing robe, thy languid eye,
And all those charms which blend to make thee fair.
Far from the madding crowd thou lov'st to stray
Recluse, and listen at the silent hour,
When wildly warbling from her secret bow'r
The pensive night-bird pours her evening lay.
'Tis thine own minstrel's melody is heard,
And as her sad song, by the moon's still beam,
Dies softly on mine ear, more sweet I deem
Her mournful note than song of blither bird;
So more than beauty's cheek of vermeil dye
Charms thy soft downcast mein and tear-dew'd eye.