Was it a feather dropt away
From some wild bird of varied hues?
From moors whereon the plovers stray,
Or groves wherein the ringdove coos?
Was it the down the thistle yields,
That sails through air like drifting snow?
Or fairy flax from fenny fields,
Or plume from warrior's helmet? No!
Or manhood's locks, or maiden's hair,
Wafted by breeze through village street?