The brood of chaste affection.[38a]
How sweet, on this autumnal day,
The wild-wood[39] fruits to gather,
And on my True-love's forehead plant
A crest of blooming heather!
And what if I enwreathed my own!
'Twere no offence to reason;
The sober Hills thus deck their brows
To meet the wintry season.