The maiden found her mystic flower.
‘Now, gentle flower, I pray thee tell
If my lover loves me, and loves me well;
So may the fall of the morning dew
Keep the sun from fading thy tender blue.
Now must I number the leaves for my lot—
He loves me not—loves me—he loves me not—
He loves me—ah! yes, thou last leaf, yes—
I’ll pluck thee not for that last sweet guess!
He loves me!’—‘Yes,’ a dear voice sighed,