My Marjorie doth hold in her white hands
A spray of lilies plucked below the brook
Where the old ruin of a chapel stands —
A ruin tenanted by many a nook,
And all the grayness of it hid from sight
By gracious draping of the ivy green.
Sweet lilies,‘ tis your glorious fate to-night
To lie upon her breast, to send between
Her silken bodice and the heart beneath
The fragrance given you by sun and shower.
Speak subtly with your warm, sweet-scented breath
Till,‘ mid the dance and music of the hour,
She turn you love-filled eyes and glowing face,
With: “Ah, ye grew in that old trysting place!”