’We never heard her speak in haste;
  Her tones were sweet,
And modulated just so much
  As it was meet: 
Her heart sat silent through the noise
  And concourse of the street. 520
There was no hurry in her hands,
  No hurry in her feet;
There was no bliss drew nigh to her,
  That she might run to greet.

’You should have wept her yesterday,
  Wasting upon her bed: 
But wherefore should you weep to-day
  That she is dead? 
Lo, we who love weep not to-day,
  But crown her royal head. 530
Let be these poppies that we strew,
  Your roses are too red: 
Let be these poppies, not for you
  Cut down and spread.’

MAIDEN-SONG

Long ago and long ago,
  And long ago still,
There dwelt three merry maidens
  Upon a distant hill. 
One was tall Meggan,
  And one was dainty May,
But one was fair Margaret,
  More fair than I can say,
Long ago and long ago.

When Meggan plucked the thorny rose, 10
  And when May pulled the brier,
Half the birds would swoop to see,
  Half the beasts draw nigher;
Half the fishes of the streams
  Would dart up to admire: 
But when Margaret plucked a flag-flower,
  Or poppy hot aflame,
All the beasts and all the birds
  And all the fishes came
To her hand more soft than snow. 20

Strawberry leaves and May-dew
  In brisk morning air,
Strawberry leaves and May-dew
  Make maidens fair. 
‘I go for strawberry leaves,’
  Meggan said one day: 
’Fair Margaret can bide at home,
  But you come with me, May;
Up the hill and down the hill,
  Along the winding way 30
You and I are used to go.’

So these two fair sisters
  Went with innocent will
Up the hill and down again,
  And round the homestead hill: 
While the fairest sat at home,
  Margaret like a queen,
Like a blush-rose, like the moon
  In her heavenly sheen,
Fragrant-breathed as milky cow 40
  Or field of blossoming bean,
Graceful as an ivy bough
  Born to cling and lean;
Thus she sat to sing and sew.

When she raised her lustrous eyes
  A beast peeped at the door;
When she downward cast her eyes
  A fish gasped on the floor;
When she turned away her eyes
  A bird perched on the sill, 50
Warbling out its heart of love,
  Warbling warbling still,
With pathetic pleadings low.

Light-foot May with Meggan
  Sought the choicest spot,
Clothed with thyme-alternate grass: 
  Then, while day waxed hot,
Sat at ease to play and rest,
  A gracious rest and play;
The loveliest maidens near or far, 60
  When Margaret was away,
Who sat at home to sing and sew.