Hunt and Lee, comps. The Book of the Sonnet. 1867.
II. To the Country GirlRobert Treat Paine (17731811)
H
This bosom echo,—’t is my heart’s reply;
Say, to her notes I listened with a tear,
And caught the sweet contagion of a “sigh.”
Cold, as those tides of vital ice that roll
Through the chilled channels of her maiden breast,
When prudish sanctity congeals the soul.
No more, in Rhyme’s imperious hood arrayed,
Hold airy converse in the Muse’s grove,
While you a shadow seemed, and I a shade.
Nor more thy verse admire than idolize thy face.