168
FOUR SONGS OF FOUR SEASONS.
In red leaves wound her,
With dead leaves bound her
Dead brows, and round her
A death‑knell rang;
Rang the death‑bell for her,
Sang, 'is it well for her,
Well, is it well with you, rose?' they sang.
vii.
The rose now, fairies,
So shrill the air is,
So wild the sky?
Poor last of roses,
Her worst of woes is
The noise she knows is
The winter's cry;
His hunting hollo
Has scared the swallow;
Fain would she follow
And fain would fly:
