“O, fairest of rural maids!”

O, Fairest of the rural maids! Thy birth was in the forest shades; Green boughs, and glimpses of the sky, Were all that met thine infant eye. Thy sports, thy wanderings, when a child, Were ever in the sylvan wild, And all the beauty of the place Is in thy heart and on thy face. The twilight of the trees and rocks Is in the light shade of thy locks; Thy step is as the wind, that weaves Its playful way among the leaves. Thine eyes are springs, in whose serene And silent waters heaven is seen; Their lashes are the herbs that look On their young figures in the brook. The forest depths, by foot impressed, Are not more sinless than thy breast; The holy peace, that fills the air Of those calm solitudes, is there.

Collection:

English

1814

William Cullen Bryant

Sub Title:

I. Admiration

More from Poet

The Battle-Field Once this soft turf, this rivulet’s sands, Were trampled by a hurrying crowd, And fiery hearts and armèd hands Encountered in the battle-cloud. Ah! never shall the land forget How gushed the life-blood of her brave,— Gushed, warm with hope and courage yet, Upon the soil they fought to...	Song of Marion’s Men OUR 1 band is few, but true and tried, Our leader frank and bold; The British soldier trembles When Marion’s name is told. Our fortress is the good greenwood, Our tent the cypress-tree; We know the forest round us, As seamen know the sea; We know its walls of thorny vines, Its glades...	The Antiquity of Freedom HERE are old trees, tall oaks and gnarled pines, That stream with gray-green mosses; here the ground Was never trenched by spade, and flowers spring up Unsown, and die ungathered. It is sweet To linger here, among the flitting birds, And leaping squirrels, wandering brooks, and winds That...	Our Country’s Call [1861] lay down the axe, fling by the spade; Leave in its track the toiling plough; The rifle and the bayonet-blade For arms like yours were fitter now; And let the hands that ply the pen Quit the light task, and learn to wield The horseman’s crookèd brand, and rein The charger on the...
America O Mother of a mighty race, Yet lovely in thy youthful grace! The elder dames, thy haughty peers, Admire and hate thy blooming years; With words of shame And taunts of scorn they join thy name. For on thy cheeks the glow is spread That tints thy morning hills with red; Thy step,—the wild...