Poems (Mary Coleridge)/Poem 47
XLVIIELEANOR
Plant not the lily here!
No lily lies below.
The crimson rose to her was dear,
And the summer of the year,
Not the snow.
No lily lies below.
The crimson rose to her was dear,
And the summer of the year,
Not the snow.
Sing no lament!
She loved a merry song.
For her the birds were sent.
To her the humming of the golden bees,
And the murmur of trees
Shall belong.
She loved a merry song.
For her the birds were sent.
To her the humming of the golden bees,
And the murmur of trees
Shall belong.