III

Come down, come home, my Rosalind,

My gay young hawk, my Rosalind:

Too long you keep the upper skies;

Too long you ream and wheel at will;

But we must hood your random eyes,

That care not whom they kill,

And your cheek, whose brilliant hue

Is so sparkling-fresh to view,

Some red heathflower in the dew,

Touched with sunrise. We must bind

And keep you fast, my Rosalind,

Fast, fast, my wild-eyed Rosalind,

And clip your wings, and make you love:

When we have lured you from above,

And that delight of frolic flight, by day or night,

From North to South;

We'll bind you fast in silken cords,

And kiss away the bitter words

From off your rosy mouth.

My Rosalind, my Rosalind,

Bold, subtle, careless Rosalind,

Is one of those who know no strife

Of inward woe or outward fear;

To whom the slope and stream of life,

The life before, the life behind,

ln the ear, from far and near,

Chimeth musically clear.

My falconhearted Rosalind,

Fullsailed before a vigorous wind,

Is one of those, who cannot weep

For others' woes, but overleap

All the petty shocks and fears

That trouble Life in early years,

With a flash of frolic scorn

And keen delight, that never falls

Away from freshness, self-upborne

With such gladness as, whenever

The freshflushing springtime calls

To the flooding waters cool,

Young fishes, on an April morn,

Up and down a rapid river,

Leap the little waterfalls

That sing into the pebbled pool.

My happy falcon, Rosalind,

Hath daring fancies of her own,

Fresh as the dawn before the day,

Fresh as the early seasmell blown

Through vineyards from an inland bay.

My Rosalind, my Rosalind,

Because no shadow on you falls

Think you hearts ate tennisballs,

To play with, wanton Rosalind?