With the web half-spun in her fingers fair,
And a ray of the sun in her brown, brown hair;
“Oh, would I might see my love,” sang she,
“My love that knows not I love him.”
Then as their eyes met, with a start I forget
Whether shame, or delight, or sorrow,
The sky in its glow seemed to interest her,
And he bent very low to fasten his spur;
But “Oh, would I might see my love,”—dear me!
They sang it no more till the morrow.