He past; a soul of nobler tone:
⁠My spirit loved and loves him yet,
⁠Like some poor girl whose heart is set
On one whose rank exceeds her own.

He mixing with his proper sphere,
⁠She finds the baseness of her lot;
⁠Half jealous of she knows not what,
And envying all that meet him there.

The little village looks forlorn;
⁠She sighs amid her narrow days,
⁠Moving about the household ways,
In that dark house where she was born.

The foolish neighbors come and go,
⁠And tease her till the day draws by:
⁠At night she weeps, ‘How vain am I!
How should he love a thing so low?'