In The Meadow'S Silk Grasses We See The Black Snail, Creeping Out At The Close Of The Eve, Sipping Dew, While Even'S One Star Glitters Over The Vale, Like A Lamp Hung Outside Of That Temple Of Blue. I Walk With My True Love Adown The Green Vale, The Light Feathered Grasses Keep Tapping Her Shoe; In The Whitethorn The Nightingale Sings Her Sweet Tale, And The Blades Of The Grasses Are Sprinkled With Dew. If She Stumbles I Catch Her And Cling To Her Neck, As The Meadow-Sweet Kisses The Blush Of The Rose: Her Whisper None Hears, And The Kisses I Take The Mild Voice Of Even Will Never Disclose. Her Hair Hung In Ringlets Adown Her Sweet Cheek, That Blushed Like The Rose In The Hedge Hung With Dew; Her Whisper Was Fragrance, Her Face Was So Meek-- The Dove Was The Type On'T That From The Bush Flew.