And flowers adorn each mossy bed;
The waters babble as they run—
One thing is lacking, only one:
If Mary were but here today,
I would believe your [charming lay],
“Witchery—witchery—witchery!”
Along the shady road I look—
Who’s coming now across the brook?
A woodland maid, all robed in white—
The leaves dance round her with delight,