Page:Poems and ballads (IA balladspoems00swinrich).pdf/185

 But wind unsettles Her poor last petals; Had she but wings, and she would not die.

Come, as you love her, Come close and cover Her white face over, And forth again Ere sunset glances On foam that dances, Through lowering lances Of bright white rain; And make your playtime Of winter's daytime, As if the Maytime Were here to sing; As if the snowballs Were soft like blowballs, Blown in a mist from the stalk in the spring.