XX

Come, Alice, sing to me the song

I made you on our marriageday,

When, arm in arm, we went along

Half-tearfully, and you were gay

With brooch and ring: for I shall seem,

The while you sing that song, to hear

The millwheel turning in the stream,

And the green chestnut whisper near.

SONG.

I wish I were her earring,

Ambushed in auburn ringlets sleek,

(So might my shadow tremble

Over her downy cheek,)

Hid in her hair, all day and night,

Touching her neck so warm and white.

I wish I were the girdle

Buckled about her dainty waist,

That her heart might beat against me,

In sorrow and in rest.

I should know well if it beat right,

I'd clasp it round so close and tight.

I wish I were her necklace,

So might I ever fall and rise

Upon her balmy bosom

With her laughter, or her sighs.

I would lie round so warm and light

I would not be unclasped at night.