And rose doth droop from sun’s-kiss,
That stole the dew; and ’mid the wastes
O’ water where they whirl and rage,
And seeked o’ word that I
Might put to answer thee.
Ayea, from days have I then stripped
The fulness of their joys, and pryed
The very buds that they might ope for thee.
Aye, and sought the days apast,
That I might sing them unto thee.