The twilight oriole sang her valentine
From pendulous nests above the stable-sill,
And, like a beggar, asking alms and wine,
Came the importunate murmur of the mill.
Love threw his flying shuttle through my woof,
And made the web a pattern I abhorred;
Wherefore alone I sang, and far aloof,
My melting melodies, mightier than the sword.
The white-sleeved mowers, coming slowly home,
With scythes like rainbows on their shoulders hung,