mixing with his proper sphere,
She finds the baseness of her lot,
Half jealous of she knows not what,
And envying all that meet him there.
little village looks forlorn;
She sighs amid her narrow days,
Moving about the household ways,
In that dark house where she was born.
foolish neighbours come and go,
And tease her till the day draws by:
At night she weeps, ‘How vain am I!
How should he love a thing so low?’