THE OLD LOVERS OFFERING ONE ANOTHER THE BEAUTY STONE.
Simon.
I would see a maid who dwells in Zolden—
Her eyes are soft as moonlight on the mere;
The spring hath fled, the ripened year turns golden—
Shall I win her ere the waning of the year?
The reaping-folk pass homeward by the fountain;
What is it then that calls me from the dell,