Then 't was not she.
Pilgrim
The peach's side
That gets the sun is not so dyed
As was her cheek. Her hair hung down
Like summer twilight falling brown;
And when the breeze swept by, I wist
Her face was in a somber mist.
Shepherd
No, that is not the maid I seek,—
Her hair lies gold against the cheek;
Her yellow tresses take the morn
Like silken tassels of the corn.
And yet—brown locks are far from bad.
Pilgrim
Now I bethink me, this one had
A figure like the willow tree
Which, slight and supple, wondrously
Inclines to droop with pensive grace,
And still retains its proper place;
A foot so arched and very small
The marvel was she walked at all;
Her hand—in sooth I lack the words—
Her hand, five slender snow-white birds;
Her voice—tho she but said "Godspeed"—
Was melody blown through a reed;
The girl Pan changed into a pipe
Had not a note so full and ripe.
And her eye—my lad, her eye!
Discreet, inviting, candid, shy,
An outward ice, an inward fire,
And lashes to the heart's desire—
Soft fringes blacker than the sloe.
Shepherd—thoughtfully
Good sir, which way did this one go?