There stood a low and ivied roof,
As gazing rustics tell,
In times of chivalry and song
Yclept the holy well.

Above the ivies' branchlets grey
In glistening clusters shone;
While round the base the grass-blades bright
And spiry fox-glove sprung

The brambles clung in graceful bands,
Chequering the old grey stone
With shining leaflets, whose bright face
In autumn's tinting shone.

Around the fountain's eastern base
A babbling brooklet sped,
With sleepy murmur puilin soft
Adown its gravelly bed.

Within the cell the filmy ferns
To woo the clear wave bent;
And cushioned mosses to the store
Their quaint embroidery lent.

The fountain's face lay still as glass—
Save where the streamlet free
Across the basin's gnarled lip
Flowed ever silently.

Above the well a little nook
Once held, as rustics tell,
All gailand-decked, an image of
The Lady of the Well

They tell of tales of mystery,
Of darkling deeds of woe;
But no! such doings might not brook
The holy streamlet's flow.

Oh tell me not of bitter thoughts,
Of melancholy dreams,
By that fair f6unt whose sunny wall
Basks in the westem beams.

When last I saw that little stream,
A form of light there stood,
That seemed like a precious gem,
Beneath that archway rude:

And as I gazed with love and awe
Upon that sylph-like thing,
Methought that airy form must be
The fairy of the spring.

A LAS ! I think of you the livelong day,
Plying my needle by the little stand,
And wish that we had never, never met,
Or I were dead, or you were married off—
Though that would kill me; I lay down my work,
And take the lute you gave me, but the strings
Have grown so tuneless that I cannot play;
I sing the favorite airs we used to sing,
The sweet old tunes we loved, and weep aloud!
I sought forgetfulness, and tried to-day
To read a chapter in the Holy Book;
I could not see a line, I only read
The solemn sonnets that you sent to me:
Nor can I pray as I was wont to do,
For you come in between me and the Lord,
And when I strive to lift my soul above,
My wits are wandering, and I sob your name!
And nights, when I am lying on my bed,
(I hope such thoughts are not unmaidenly!)
I think of you, and fall asleep, and dream
I am your own, your wedded, happy wife,—
But that can never, never be on earth!