I

“I know, I know; The way doth go Athwart a greenwood glade, oh! White bloom the wild-plums in that glade, White as the bosom of the maid Who, stooping, sits, and milks and sings Among the dew-dashed clover rings, When fades the flush, the henna blush, The orange-glow of sunset low, And all the winds are laid, oh!”