THERE 's a woman like a dewdrop, she 's so purer than the purest; And her noble heart 's the noblest, yes, and her sure faith's the     surest: And her eyes are dark and humid, like the depth on depth of lustre Hid i' the harebell, while her tresses, sunnier than the wild-grape     cluster, Gush in golden-tinted plenty down her neck's rose-misted marble: Then her voice's music … call it the well's bubbling, the bird's     warble!

And this woman says, 'My days were sunless and my nights were     moonless, Parch'd the pleasant April herbage, and the lark's heart's outbreak     tuneless, If you loved me not!' And I who (ah, for words of flame!) adore her, Who am mad to lay my spirit prostrate palpably before her— I may enter at her portal soon, as now her lattice takes me, And by noontide as by midnight make her mine, as hers she makes me!