She sits upon the water's brink

As mournful soul'd as you can think.

She has a thousand birds; and yet

She will look downward, nor forget

The fluttered white-winged turtle dove,

The changeful-throated birdling, love,

That came, that sang through tropic trees,

Then flew for aye across the seas.

The waters kiss her feet; above

Her head the trees are blossoming,