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.