And so it was with the damsel who knelt there.

The little skylark went up above her, all song, to the smooth southern cloud lying along the blue: from a dewy copse dark over her nodding hat the blackbird fluted, calling to her with thrice mellow note: the kingfisher flashed emerald out of green osiers: a bow-winged heron travelled aloft, seeking solitude a boat slipped toward her, containing a dreamy youth; and still she plucked the fruit, and ate, and mused, as if no fairy prince were invading her territories, and as if she wished not for one, or knew not her wishes.
Surrounded by the green shaven meadows, the pastoral summer buzz, the weir-fall's thundering white, amid the breath and beauty of wild flowers, she was a bit of lovely human life in a fair setting; a terrible attraction.

The Magnetic Youth leaned round to note his proximity to the weir-piles, and beheld the sweet vision.

Stiller and stiller grew nature, as at the meeting of two electric clouds.

Her posture was so graceful, that though he was making straight for the weir, he dared not dip a scull.