And beat the downy pride
Of dandelions, wide:
From speargrass, bowed with watery beads,
The wet uniting, drips
In sparkles off the tips:
In mallow bloom the wild bee drops and feeds.

No more she hears, where vines adorn
Her window, on the boughs
Birds chirrup an arouse:
Flies, buzzing, strengthening with the morn,
She will not hear again
At random strike the pane:
No more against the newly shorn
Grass edges will her gown
In playful waves be thrown,
As she walks forth to view what flowers are born.

Nor ponder more those dark green rings
Stained quaintly on the lea,
To picture elfin glee;
While through the grass a faint air sings,
And swarms of insects revel
Along the sultry level:
No more will watch their brilliant wings,
Now lightly dip, now soar,
Then sink, and rise once more.
My Lady's death makes dear these trivial things.

One noon, within an oak's broad shade,