Lovely as flower
In April hour,
Steps forth a form unbidden.

"Get ye now down, my lord, to me!
I'm troubled so I'm like to dee,"
She cries, 'twixt joy and grief, O;
"The hound is dead,
When all is said,
But love is past belief, O.

"Nights, nights I've lain your lands to see,
Forlorn and still--and all for me,
All for a foolish curse, O;
Now here am I
Come out to die--
To live unloved is worse, O!"

In faith, this lord, in that lone dale,
Hears now a sweeter nightingale,
And lairs a tenderer deer, O;
His sorrow goes
Like mountain snows
In waters sweet and clear, O!

What ghostly hound is this that fleet
Comes fawning to his mistress' feet,
And courses round his master?
How swiftly love
May grief remove,