She hung her head in the mossy dell:
“If all were over, then all were well.”
The wind he heard, and was pitiful;
He waved her about to make her cool.
“Wind, you are rough,” said the dainty bell;
“Leave me alone—I am not well.”
And the wind, at the voice of the drooping dame,
Sank in his heart, and ceased for shame.
“I am hot, so hot!” she sighed and said;
“I am withering up; I wish I was dead.”