Sonnet XII
Like as a dryad, from her native boleComing at dusk, when the dim stars emerge,To a slow river at whose silent vergeTall poplars tremble and deep grasses roll,Come thou no less and, kneeling in a shoalOf the freaked flag and meadow buttercup,Bend till thine image from the pool beam upArched with blue heaven like an aureole.See how adorable in fancy thenLives the fair face it mirrors even so,O thou whose beauty moving among menIs like the wind’s way on the woods below,Filling all nature where its pathway liesWith arms that supplicate and trembling sighs.