When trees in Spring
Are blossoming
 My lady wakes
From dreams whose light
Made dark days bright,
 For their sweet sakes. 
Yet in her eyes
A shadow lies
 Of bygone mirth;
And still she seems
To walk in dreams,
 And not on earth. 

Some men may hold
That hair of gold
 Is lovelier
Than darker sheen:
They have not seen
 My lady?s hair. 

Her eyes are bright,
Her bosom white
 As the sea foam
On sharp rocks sprayed;
Her mouth is made
 Of honeycomb. 

And whoso seeks
In her dusk cheeks
 May see Love?s sign?
A blush that glows
Like a red rose
 Beneath brown wine.