In that greeness of a young and an most awkward age,
It seemed my destiny to dwell alone in peace, in a place
Of which I could not dream myself being any fonder of.

And by the brook, is where I took, mine one and only book,
To read for hours, in a nook, 'neath a sycamore tree. A book
Which still I keep, tho rarely read, where lovers ponder love.