She turns to her lover, she leaves her sire.
Mother! on earth it must still be so:
Thou rearest the lovely to see them go!
They are moving onward, the bridal throng,
Ye may track their way by the swells of song;
Ye may catch through the foliage their white robes’ gleam,
Like a swan midst the reeds of a shadowy stream;
Their arms bear up garlands, their gliding tread
Is over the deep-vein’d violet’s bed;
They have light leaves around them, blue skies above,