Page:Poems and ballads (IA balladspoems00swinrich).pdf/84

 Who loves thee alive; but not till she be dead. Come, Love, then, quickly, and take her utmost breath.

Song, speak for me who am dumb as are the dead; From my sad bed of tears I send forth thee, To fly all day from sun's birth to sun's death Down the sun's way after the flying sun, For love of her that gave thee wings and breath, Ere day be done, to seek the sunflower.