The Maiden

Who was this that came by the way,
When the flowers were springing?
She bore in her hair the buds of May,
And a bird on her shoulder, singing.

A girdle of the fairest green
Her slender waist confined.
And such a flame was never seen
As in her eyes there shined.

By the way she came, that way she went,
And took the sunlight with her.
The May of life shall all be spent
Ere she again come hither!