With never a thought of love or death.
Green apple-boughs met o'er the country lane:
She sang her sweet little song again;
In the meadow beside her red clover grew,
And yellow-winged butterflies o'er it flew;
And here and there moved a woolly back,
For there were the farmer's sheep, alack!
And the bluè-eyed boy, who was told to keep
Out of the clover the frolic sheep,
Under the hay-stack sleeping lay,