I’ve known so few, I’ve met so many,
Yet still to the eyes of men I wallow.

How I crave those screams of terror! O, tyranny!
How I yearn for such passions to follow!

Yet still l sit untouched; barren and poor.
Left to be but a misty shadow.

But in my travels through the moor,
Through the stream and through the meadow,

I see His rose has grown a petal,
With still intentions to lure.