The falcon perched for idleness.
That merry bird, O would I were!
In joy with her, in joy with her.
My darling comes not from her bower,
The lowered pennon sweeps the tower;
The larches droop their tassels low,
And bells are marshalled to and fro.
My heart, my heart, beholds her now,
The pallid hands, the saintly brow,
The lily with chill death oppressed