Fain would we stop and pluck a few to deck our tresses gay,
But the tree is high, and ’tis vain to try and reach the tempting spray.
XXVII.
The pretty birds upon the boughs sing songs so sweet to hear,
And the sky is so delicious now, half cloudy and half clear;
While bending o’er her work, each maid will prattle of her woe,
And we talk till our hearts are sorely hurt, and tears unstinted flow.
XXVIII.
Our time is up, and yet not full our baskets to the mouth—
The twigs anorth are fully searched, let’s seek them in the south;