Nets to Catch the Wind/Spring Pastoral

Liza, go steep your long white hands In the cool waters of that spring Which bubbles up through shiny sands The color of a wild-dove's wing.

Dabble your hands, and steep them well Until those nails are pearly white Now rosier than a laurel bell; Then come to me at candle-light.

Lay your cold hands across my brows, And I shall sleep, and I shall dream Of silver-pointed willow boughs Dipping their fingers in a stream.