O Our Lady! let not ill thoughts possess me!
I would I were at Morbec this still eve,
Herding the cows amid the golden broom,
Above a sea of glass without a wind,
As stagnant calm as is this prisoned water!
I would gather the musk rose in the lane,
I would tread the wet sand and count the ships,
My brow would not burn, my heart would not ache,
No tears from my eyes would I wipe away!
Why should they not fall like the winter rain?