Marit

C'est un songe que d'y penser.

My love, on a fair May morning,
Would weave a garland of May:
The dew hung frore, as her foot tripped o'er
The grass at dawn of the day;
On leaf and stalk, in each green wood-walk,
Till the sun should charm it away.

Green as a leaf her kirtle,
Her bodice red as a rose:
Her white bare feet went softly and sweet
By roots where the violet grows;
Where speedwells azure as heaven,
Their sleepy eyes half close.

O'er arms as fair as the lilies
No sleeve my love drew on:
She found a bower of the wildrose flower,
And for her breast culled one:
And I laugh and know her breasts will grow
Or ever a year be gone.

O sweet dream, wrought of a dear fore-thought,
Of a golden time to fall!
She seemed to sing, in her wandering,
Till doves in the elm-tops tall
Grew mute to hear; as her song rang clear
How love is the lord of all.