Oh Fairest Of The Rural Maids! Thy Birth Was In The Forest Shades; Green Boughs, And Glimpses Of The Sky, Were All That Met Thy Infant Eye. Thy Sports, Thy Wanderings, When A Child, Were Ever In The Sylvan Wild; And All The Beauty Of The Place Is In Thy Heart And On Thy Face. The Twilight Of The Trees And Rocks Is In The Light Shade Of Thy Locks; Thy Step Is As The Wind, That Weaves Its Playful Way Among The Leaves. Thine Eyes Are Springs, In Whose Serene And Silent Waters Heaven Is Seen; Their Lashes Are The Herbs That Look On Their Young Figures In The Brook. The Forest Depths, By Foot Unpressed, Are Not More Sinless Than Thy Breast; The Holy Peace, That Fills The Air Of Those Calm Solitudes, Is There.