To you I sing, whom towns immure,
And bonds of toil hold fast and sure;—
To you across whose aching sight
Come woodlands bathed in April light,
And dreams of pastime premature.

And you, O Sad, who still endure
Some wound that only Time can cure,—
To you, in watches of the night,-
To you I sing!

But most to you with eyelids pure,
Scarce witting yet of love or lure;-
To you, with bird-like glances bright,
Half-paused to speak, half-poised in flight ;-

O English Girl, divine, demure,

TO YOU I sing!