O Earth’s betrothal, sweet and true,
With whose delights our souls are rife
And aye their vernal vows renew!
Then, darling, walk with me this morn:
Let your brown tresses drink its sheen;
These violets, within them worn,
Of floral fays shall make you queen.
What though there comes a time of pain
When autumn winds forbode decay;
The days of love are born again,