But the ringlets of that head Why are they ungarlanded? Why bedeck her temples less Than the simplest shepherdess? 110 Is it not a brow inviting Choicest flowers[534] that ever breathed, Which the myrtle would delight in With Idalian rose enwreathed? But her humility is well content 115 With _one_ wild floweret (call it not forlorn) FLOWER OF THE WINDS,[535] beneath her bosom worn-- Yet[536] more for love than ornament. Open, ye thickets! let her fly, Swift as a Thracian Nymph o'er field and height! 120 For She, to all but those who love her, shy, Would gladly vanish from a Stranger's sight; Though where she is beloved and loves, Light as the wheeling butterfly she moves; Her happy spirit as a bird is free, 125 That rifles blossoms on a tree,[537] Turning them inside out with arch audacity. Alas! how little can a moment show Of an eye where feeling plays In ten thousand dewy rays; 130 A face o'er which a thousand shadows go! --She stops--is fastened to that rivulet's side; And there (while, with sedater mien, O'er timid waters that have scarcely left Their birth-place in the rocky cleft 135 She bends) at leisure may be seen Features to old ideal grace allied,[538] Amid their smiles and dimples dignified-- Fit countenance for the soul of primal truth; The bland composure of eternal youth! 140 What more changeful than the sea? But over his great tides Fidelity presides; And this light-hearted Maiden constant is as he. High is her aim as heaven above, 145 And wide as ether her good-will; And, like the lowly reed, her love Can drink its nurture from the scantiest rill: Insight as keen as frosty star Is to _her_ charity no bar, 150 Nor interrupts her frolic graces When she is, far from these wild places, Encircled by familiar faces.