Of tripping tongue or cunning jest,
Yet here he lingers many a day.
Beneath his ivory feet I lay
Pale plumage of the ringdove’s breast;
I did not dream that Love would stay.
Will Love be flown? I ofttimes say,
Home turning for the noonday rest;
Yet here he lingers many a day.
His gold curls gleam, his lips are gay,
His eyes through tears smile loveliest;