Page:The witch-maid & other verses (1914).djvu/25



beautiful old simple songs That make us laugh and cry, That sing of dying loveliness In words that cannot die:

Of how the singer's love was sweet Or how she was unkind, And how her lips were red that now Are dust upon the wind: Of how the fields were gold in May With daffodils a-row, And all the birds made holiday Six hundred years ago:—