THE FLOWER MAIDEN.

THE FLOWER MAIDEN.
480.6

They could not find a mortal wife,
And made him one of flowers;
Her eyes they made of violets,
Wet with their morning shower

They took the blossom of the oak,
The blossom of the broom,
The blossom of the meadow sweet,
To be her body’s bloom.

But they forgot from mother-earth
To beg the kindling coal;
They made for him a wife of flowers,
But they forgot the soul.
-Ernest Rhys.