Girt with a boyish garb for boyish task,
⁠Eager she wields her spade: yet loves as well
Rest on a friendly knee, intent to ask
⁠The tale one loves to tell.

Rude scoffer of the seething outer strife,
⁠Unmeet to read her pure and simple spright.
Deem, if thou wilt, such hours a waste of life,
⁠Empty of all delight!

Chat on, sweet Maid, and rescue from annoy
⁠Hearts that by wiser talk are unbeguiled
Ah, happy he who owns that tenderest joy,
⁠The heart-love of a child!

Away, fond thoughts, and vex my soul no more!
⁠Work claims my wakeful nights, my busy days
Albeit bright memories of that sunlit shore
⁠Yet haunt my dreaming gaze