“But she, like a thing of peasant race,
That is happy behind the sheaves;”
Then he saw her dead mother in her face,
And said, “Thou shalt have thy leaves.”
He mounted and rode three days and nights
Till he came to Vanity Fair,
And ’twas easy to buy the gems and the silk,
But no Singing Leaves were there.
Then deep in the greenwood rode he,
And asked of every tree,