That day we waded ankle-deep
For lilies in the beck:
"Here's my half of the faded leaves
We plucked from budding bough,
With feet among the lily leaves,—
The lilies are budding now."
He strove to match her scorn with scorn,
He faltered in his place;
"Lady," he said,—"Maude Clare," he said,—
"Maude Clare:"—and hid his face.