My darling rides across the sand;

The wind is warm, the wind is bland;

It lifts the pony’s glossy mane,

So light and proud she holds his rein.

Not easier bears a leaf the dew

Than she her scarf and kirtle blue,

And on her wrist, in bells and jess,

The falcon perched for idleness.

That merry bird, O would I were!

In joy with her, in joy with her.

My darling comes not from her bower,

The lowered pennon sweeps the tower;

The larches droop their tassels low,

My heart, my heart, beholds her now,

The pallid hands, the saintly brow,

The lily with chill death oppressed

Against the summer of her breast:

That lily pale, O would I were!

In peace with her, in peace with her.