Page:Collected poems vol 2 de la mare.djvu/88

 HE scent of bramble fills the air,
 * Amid her folded sheets she lies,

The gold of evening in her hair,
 * The blue of morn shut in her eyes.

How many a changing moon hath lit
 * The unchanging roses of her face!

Her mirror ever broods on it
 * In silver stillness of the days.

Oft flits the moth on filmy wings
 * Into his solitary lair;

Shrill evensong the cricket sings
 * From some still shadow in her hair.

In heat, in snow, in wind, in flood,
 * She sleeps in lovely loneliness,

Half-folded like an April bud
 * On winter-haunted trees.