A little tender lass is she—she leans upon the rail
And sleeps, and though I hail her she answers not my hail.
XXV.
And when at length to my loudest call she murmurs a reply,
’Tis as if hard to conquer sleep, and with half-opened eye;
Up starts she, and with straggling steps along the path she’s gone;
She brings her basket, but forgets to put the cover on!
XXVI.
Together trudge we, and we pass the lodge of the southern bowers,
Where the beautiful sea-pomegranate waves all its yellow flowers;