Sparrow of Love, so sharp to peck,
Arrow of Love--I bare my neck
Down to the bosom. See, no fleck
Of blood! I have never a wound; I go
Forth to the greenwood. Yet, heigh-ho!
What 'neath my girdle flutters so?
'Tis not a bird, and yet hath wings,
'Tis not an arrow, yet it stings;
While in the wound it nests and sings--
Heigh-ho!
_He._ Of Arion, of Arion
That wound thou shalt learn;
What nothings 'tis made of,
And soft pretty soothings
In shade of the fern.
_She._ When maids have a mind to,
Man's word they rely on,
Old warning are blind to--
I come, then--I come
To walk with Arion
Where green woods are dumb!