Oh, scanty white garment! they ask why I wear you,
Such thin chilly vesture for one that is frail,
And dull words of prose cannot truly declare you
To be what I bid you be, love's coat of mail.

You were but a symbol of cleanness and rest,
To don in the summer time, three years ago;
And now you encompass a care-stricken breast
With fabric of fancy to keep it aglow.

For when it was Lammastide two before this,
When freshening my face after freshening my lilies,
A door opened quickly, and down fell a kiss,
The lips unforeseen were my passionate Willie's.

My Willie was travel-worn, Willie was cold,
And I might not keep but a dear lock of hair.
I clad him in silk and I decked him with gold,
But welcome and fondness were choked in despair.

I follow the wheels, and he turns with a sob,
We fold our mute hands on the death of the hour;
For heart-breaking virtues and destinies rob
The soul of her nursling, the thorn of her flower.

The lad's mind is rooted, his passion red-fruited,
The head I caressed is another's delight;
And I, though I stray through the year sorrow-suited,
At Lammas, for Willie's sake, robe me in white.