Spring pastoral

Liza, go steep your long white hands

In the cool waters of that spring

Which bubbles up through shiny sands

The colour of a wild-dove's wing.

Dabble your hands, and steep them well

Until those nails are pearly white

Now rosier than a laurel bell;

Then come to me at candlelight.

Lay your cold hands across my brows,

And I shall sleep, and I shall dream

Of silver-pointed willow boughs

Dipping their fingers in a stream.