Golden Histories, etc By Wathen Mark Wilks Call |
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A Naiad
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 | Golden Histories, etc |  |
162
A Naiad
In the season of roses, when roses are reddest,
She stood in the stream with her feet silver-white;
O Stream! how thou murmuredst, Stream, how thou fleddest,
When she shook her feet over thee, dropping down light,
In the season of roses, when roses are reddest.
She stood in the stream with her feet silver-white;
O Stream! how thou murmuredst, Stream, how thou fleddest,
When she shook her feet over thee, dropping down light,
In the season of roses, when roses are reddest.
With a sweetness that wooed you she stood in the roses,
With a sweetness that sought you and then would retreat.
Like a rosebud that opens, a rosebud that closes,
And flies thro' all changes of wild and of sweet;
With a sweetness that wooed you she stood in the roses.
With a sweetness that sought you and then would retreat.
Like a rosebud that opens, a rosebud that closes,
And flies thro' all changes of wild and of sweet;
With a sweetness that wooed you she stood in the roses.
She stood in the roses, when roses are reddest,
She raised her white hand to a rose in her hair,
O! the rose would blush red, tho' its leaves were the deadest,
When quickened and brightened by fingers so fair,
In the season of roses, when roses are reddest.
She raised her white hand to a rose in her hair,
O! the rose would blush red, tho' its leaves were the deadest,
When quickened and brightened by fingers so fair,
In the season of roses, when roses are reddest.
| Golden Histories, etc | |