Hour by hour, and day by day,
Sang the maid her roundelay;
Hour by hour, and day by day,
Spun her threads of white and gray.
While the shepherd-student held
Commune with the great of eld:
Pondered on their wondrous words,
While he watched his scattered herds,
While he stemmed the surging fords.
And he knew the lore of birds,
Learned the secrets of the rills,
Conversed with the answering hills.
Like her threads of white and gray,
Passed their mingled Eves away,
One unceasing roundelay —
Winter came, it still was May!