She walks as lightly as the fly 
Skates on the water in July.

To hear her moving petticoat 
For me is music's highest note.

Stones are not heard, when her feet pass, 
No more than tumps of moss or grass.

When she sits still, she's like the flower 
To be a butterfly next hour.

The brook laughs not more sweet, when he 
Trips over pebbles suddenly. 
My Love, like him, can whisper low -- 
When he comes where green cresses grow.

She rises like the lark, that hour 
He goes halfway to meet a shower.

A fresher drink is in her looks 
Than Nature gives me, or old books.

When I in my Love's shadow sit, 
I do not miss the sun one bit.

When she is near, my arms can hold 
All that's worth having in this world.

And when I know not where she is, 
Nothing can come but comes amiss.