Towards him, then she turns away
Her small head, making warm display
Of red upon the throat. His terrors sway
Her out of the nest’s warm, busy ball, [p. vi]
Whose plaintive cry is heard as she flies
In one blue stoop from out the sties
Into the evening’s empty hall.
Oh, water-hen, beside the rushes
Hide your quaint, unfading blushes,
Still your quick tail, and lie as dead,