Wilt tend no more the daisies on the lea,
Nor wake thy cowslips up on May morning?
What, shall we brew us possets by the fire
And let the wild rose shiver on the brier.
The cowslip tremble in the meadows chill,
While thy unlovely battle-call wails higher
And dusty squadrons charge adown the hill?
It is too late; thou art no love of mine;
I answer not this sigh, this kiss divine;
The sunlight penitently streaming down