Oh by the love which unto thee I bear,
By the tall trees and streams, and everything
In the white-clouded sky or woodland air,
Whether of sight or sound, that here may bring
The joyous freshness of the grassy spring—
Fain would I warn thee; for too well I know,
Be what thou wilt, thou must be dear to me.
And lo! thou art in utter bondage now,
Whence I would have thy manly spirit free.
Among the hills we two did never mar
The moss about the springs, but learnt to spare
Pale flowers which rude hands would not leave to grow;
And if thou wert so wisely gentle there—
Thy soul hath better flowers—oh! be as guiltless now.