Page:The Poems of Oscar Wilde.pdf/127



limbs are wasted with a flame,

My feet are sore with travelling,

For, calling on my Lady's name,

My lips have now forgot to sing.

O Linnet in the wild-rose brake

Strain for my Love thy melody,

O Lark sing louder for love's sake,

My gentle Lady passeth by.

O almond-blossoms bend adown

Until ye reach her drooping head;

O twining branches weave a crown

Of apple-blossoms white and red.

She is too fair for any man

To see or hold his heart's delight,

Fairer than Queen or courtesan

Or moon-lit water in the night.

Her hair is bound with myrtle leaves,

(Green leaves upon her golden hair!)

Green grasses through the yellow sheaves

Of autumn corn are not more fair. 113