My Lady Comes

Peace, mournful Bee, with that

Man’s deep voice from the grave:

My Lady comes, and flowers

Make all their colours wave;

And joyful shivers seize

The hedges, grass and trees.

My Lady comes, and leaves

Above her head clap hands;

The cow o’er the field,

Up straight the Horse now stands;

Under her loving eyes

Flowers change to butterflies.

The grass comes running up

To kiss her coming feet;

Then cease your grumble, Bee,

When I my Lady meet;

And Arch, let not your stones

Turn our soft sighs to groans.