Page:Poems and ballads (IA balladspoems00swinrich).pdf/184

 In red leaves wound her, With dead leaves bound her Dead brows, and round her A death‑knell rang; Rang the death‑bell for her, Sang, 'is it well for her, Well, is it well with you, rose?' they sang.

O what and where is The rose now, fairies, So shrill the air is, So wild the sky? Poor last of roses, Her worst of woes is The noise she knows is The winter's cry; His hunting hollo Has scared the swallow; Fain would she follow And fain would fly: