Through the musical reeds of a river;
A voice as of reapers who bind and reap,
With the ring of curved scythes that quiver:
A voice, singing ripe the orchards that heap
With crimson and gold the ground;
That whispers like sleep, till the briars weep
Their berries, all ruby round,
And vineyards are purple-crowned.
Right sweet is the beat of her glowing feet,
And her smile, as Heaven's, is gracious;