Lines of sweet garlands lie beside
Lines of sweet garlands lie beside,
The winding road,
The stooping hill,
Pines and moorland bend to the ride,
Of Cupid’s delight,
The eerie, hoping thrill...
The shepherd’s flock, wool a-blowing,
Cow and music softly lowing,
To the wind which wisely, thanks bestowing,
Accepts the bow of Cupid’s aim...
Wind tripping lightly all along,
Its spouse, the cloud,
Its smile, the sun,
Sings the slipping, flighty throng,
Full voice aloud,
Along the frantic, joyous run...
The shepherd’s sweetheart, far away,
Stops from her song, stops from her Maying,
And hearing the sound, begins a-praying,
Accepts the flowers which high noon’s bride has thrown...