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Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clearThe freedom of a Mountaineer.A face with gladness overspread!Sweet looks, by human kindness bred!And seemliness complete, that swaysThy courtesies, about thee plays;With no restraint, but such as springsFrom quick and eager visitingsOf thoughts, that lie beyond the reachOf thy few words of English speech:A bondage sweetly brook'd, a strifeThat gives thy gestures grace and life!So have I, not unmov'd in mind,Seen birds of tempest-loving kind,Thus beating up against the wind.
What hand but would a garland cullFor thee who art so beautiful?
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