A timid grace sits trembling in her eye, As loath to meet the rudeness of men's sight, Yet shedding a delicious lunar light That steeps in kind oblivious ecstasy The care-crazed mind, like some still melody: Speaking most plain the thoughts which do possess Her gentle sprite: peace, and meek quietness, And innocent loves, and maiden purity: A look whereof might heal the cruel smart Of changed friends, or fortune's wrongs unkind: Might to sweet deeds of mercy move the heart Of him who hates his brethren of mankind. Turned are those lights from me, who fondly yet Past joys, vain loves, and buried hopes regret.