I meet a woman on the woodland,
sleeping underneath a willow tree.
Her face is serene, that is all I see
while I stroke her indolent hand.
“You will not be roused by the sun,
even the skylark will be hushed
and if your cheeks are flushed
I shall call you spring blossom…”
There I waited all night long
keeping the daylight faraway,
just like I did yesterday:
humming an old nursery song,
strumming slowly her silky hair,
captivated by her face fair.