Who was this that came by the way,
— When the flowers were springing?
She bore in her hair the buds of May,
— And a bird on her shoulder, singing.

A girdle of the fairest green
— Her slender waist confined.
And such a flame was never seen
— As in her eyes there shined.

By the way she came, that way she went,
— And took the sunlight with her.
The May of life shall all be spent
— Ere she again come hither!