Where brown birds sang of summertide;

   (’Twas Love’s own voice that called and cried)

   “Ah, Sweet!” she said, “I’ll seek thee yet,

   Though thorniest pathways should betide

   The fair white feet of Nicolete.”

   They slept, who would have stayed her flight;

   (Full fain were they the maid had died!)

   She dropped adown her prison’s height

   On strands of linen featly tied.

   And so she passed the garden-side

   With loose-leaved roses sweetly set,

   And dainty daisies, dark beside

   The fair white feet of Nicolete!

   Her lover lay in evil plight

   (So many lovers yet abide!)

   I would my tongue could praise aright

   Her name, that should be glorified.

   Those lovers now, whom foes divide

   A little weep,—and soon forget.

   How far from these faint lovers glide

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