As when a mother doth explore

The rose-mark on her long lost child,
I met, I lov'd you, maiden mild!
As whom I long had lov'd before—
So deeply had I been beguil'd.

You stood before me like a thought,

A dream remember'd in a dream.
But when those meek eyes first did seem
To tell me, Love within you wrought—
O Greta, dear domestic stream!

Has not, since then, Love's prompture deep,

Has not Love's whisper evermore,
Been ceaseless, as thy gentle roar?
Sole voice, when other voices sleep,
Dear under-song in Clamor's hour.