Nor ever Autumn’s leaves of brown
As lightly flutter to the lawn
As fall her fairy-feet upon
The path of love she loiters down.—
O’er drops of dew she walks, and yet
Not one may stain her sandal wet—
Ay, she might dance upon the way
Nor crush a single drop to spray,
So airy-like she seems to me,—
My bride, my bride that is to be.