O hurry where by water among the trees

    The delicate-stepping stag and his lady sigh，

    When they have but looked upon their images—

    Would none had ever loved but you and I！

    Or have you heard that sliding silver-shoed

    Pale silver-proud queen-woman of the sky，

    When the sun looked out of his golden hood¹？—

    O that none ever loved but you and I！

    O hurry to the ragged² wood， for there

    I will drive all those lovers out and cry—

    O my share of the world， O yellow hair！

    No one has ever loved but you and I.

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