Below my feet are holes in a row
And through them swerves the thread.
My shadow, silently sewn to my sole,
Lays stretched on the road ahead.

So intricate the weave of the path
As her soft bed of hair,
My mind already beneath her lath
Had found her seated there.

And every thing my eyes lit upon
Was laced with golden hue:
The terrace, folding fields, oh! the dawn,
The sunbeams shining you.