my love is in a light attire

among the apple-trees,

where the gay winds do most desire

to run in companies.

there, where the gay winds stay to woo

the young leaves as they pass,

my love goes slowly, bending to

her shadow on the grass;

and where the sky’s a pale blue cup

over the laughing land,

my love goes lightly, holding up

her dress with dainty hand.