“Elle était bien belle, le matin, sans atours!”

HOW fair, at dawn, how simply did she go,

Watching her new-born garden flowrets thrive,

Spying her bees in their ambrosial hive,

Ling’ring beside each hedge and hawthorn row!

How fair at eventide lead on the maze

Of the mad dance, whilst in her massy hair

Sapphires and roses woven crowned more fair

That face illumined by the torches’ blaze!

How fair was she beneath her pure soft veil,