The crafty Nix, more false than fair,
Whose haunt in arrowy Iser lies,
She envied me my golden hair,
She envied me my azure eyes.

The moon with silvery ciphers traced
The leaves, and on the waters played;
She rose, her arms my form embraced,
She said: ‘Come down with me, fair maid.’

She led me to her crystal grot,
She set me in her coral chair,
She waved her wand, and I had not
Or azure eyes or golden hair.

Her locks of jet, her eyes of flame
Were mine, and hers my semblance fair:
‘O make me, Nix, again the same,
O give me back my golden hair!’

She smiles in scorn, she disappears,
And here I sit and see no sun;
My eyes of fire are quenched in tears,
And all my darksome locks undone.