And she in the midnight wood will pray
For the weal of her lover that’s far away.
She stole along, she nothing spoke,
The sighs she heaved were soft and low.
And naught was green upon the oak,
But moss and rarest [mistletoe];
She kneels beneath the huge oak tree.
And in silence prayeth she.
The lady sprang up suddenly,
The lovely lady, Christabel!