The pied pinks tilt in the wind that worries—
Sing, Oh, the wind and the red o’ her cheek!—
And the slow sun creeps on the rye nor hurries—
And what shall a lover speak?
The toad-flax brightens the flaxen hollows—
Sing, Ay, the bloom and her yellow hair!—
And the greenwood brook a wood-way follows—
And what shall a lover dare?
The deep woods gleam that the sunlight sprinkles—
Sing, Hey, the day and her laughing eye!—
And a brown bird pipes and a wild fall tinkles—
And what may a maid reply?
Hey, the hills when the evening settles!
Oh, the heavens within her eyes!
What will he ask ’mid the dropping petals?
And what will she say with sighs?—
“Look, where the west is a blur of roses!”—
“There’s naught like the rose o’ the cheeks I see!”—
“Look, where the first star’s eye uncloses!”—
“But what of your eyes, my destiny?”