In fair Provence, the land of lute and rose

What curled and scented sun-girls, almond-eyed, With lotos-blossoms in their hands and hair.

The high-voiced children trebled clear and cold.

A sheep in sheep's clothing.

Ah! sovereign Love, forgive this weaker rhyme! The men of old who sang were great at heart, Yet have we too known woe, and worn thy rose.

Canst thou not wait for Love one flying hour O heart of little faith?

The music of the scythes that glide and leap, The young men whistling as their great arms sweep, And all the perfume and sweet sense of sleep,The weary butterflies that droop their wings, The dreamy nightingale that hardly sings, And all …