254 LAY OF THE ROSE. 



E'en nightingales shall flee 

 Their woods for love of me, 

 Singing sadly all the suntide, 

 Never waiting for the moontide ! 



" Three larks shall leave a cloud, 

 To my whiter beauty vow'd, 

 Singing gladly all the moontide, 

 Never waiting for the suntide 



So praying did she win 

 South winds to let her in, 

 In her loneness, in her lonenes* 

 And the fairer for that oneness. 



But out, alas, for her ! 



No thing did minister 

 To her praises, to her praises, 

 More than might unto a daisy's. 



No tree nor bush was seen 

 To boast a perfect green, 

 Scarcely having, scarcely having 

 One leaf broad enow for waving. 



