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,— in watches of the night,—

To you,

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!