I said to the lily, ' There is but one 



With whom she has heart to be gay. 

 When will the dancers leave her alone ? 



She is weary of dance and play.' 

 Now half to the setting moon are gone, 



And half to the rising day ; 

 Low on the sand and loud on the stone 



The last wheel echoes away. 



I said to the rose, ' The brief night goes 



In babble and revel and wine. 

 O young lord-lover, what sighs are those. 



For one that will never be thine ? 

 But mine, but mine,' so I sware to the rose, 



' For ever and ever, mine.' 



And the soul of the rose went into my blood, 



As the music clash 'd in the hall ; 

 And long by the garden lake I stood. 



For I heard your rivulet fall 

 From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood, 



Our wood, that is dearer than all ; 



From the meadow your walks have left so sweet 



That whenever a March-wind sighs 

 He sets the jewel-print of your feet 



In violets blue as your eyes, 

 To the woody hollows in which we meet 



And the valleys of Paradise. 



The slender acacia would not shake 



One long milk-bloom on the tree ; 

 The white lake-blossom fell into the lake 



As the pimpernel dozed on the lea ; 

 4 



