In green, as light as young birch leaves
When spring its bath of dew receives,
In red, as pale a hue revealing,
As streak at dawn, the mist concealing!
At night they breast to breast had slumbered,
In moonbeams’ silver veil did lie
On poppy-bed by waves unnumbered,
To angels’ sweetest lullaby.
Now stand they fresh as early morning,
In sprightly mood, all dullness scorning.