(FOR
MUSIC.)
THE
apple
trees
are
hung
with
gold,
And
birds
are
loud
in
Arcady,
The
sheep
lie
bleating
in
the
fold,
The
wild
goat
runs
across
the
wold,
But
yesterday
his
love
he
told,
I
know
he
will
come
back
to
me.
O
rising
moon!
O
Lady
moon!
Be
you
my
lover's
sentinel,
You
cannot
choose
but
know
him
well,
For
he
is
shod
with
purple
shoon,
You
cannot
choose
but
know
my
love,
For
he
a
shepherd's
crook
doth
bear,
And
he
is
soft
as
any
dove,
And
brown
and
curly
is
his
hair.
The
turtle
now
has
ceased
to
call
Upon
her
crimson-footed
groom,
The
grey
wolf
prowls
about
the
stall,
The
lily's
singing
seneschal
Sleeps
in
the
lily-bell,
and
all
The
violet
hills
are
lost
in
gloom.
O
risen
moon!
O
holy
moon!
Stand
on
the
top
of
Helice,
And
if
my
own
true
love
you
see,
Ah!
if
you
see
the
purple
shoon,
The
hazel
crook,
the
lad's
brown
hair,
The
goat-skin
wrapped
about
his
arm,
Tell
him
that
I
am
waiting
where
The
rushlight
glimmers
in
the
Farm.
The
falling
dew
is
cold
and
chill,
And
no
bird
sings
in
Arcady,
The
little
fauns
have
left
the
hill,
Even
the
tired
daffodil
Has
closed
its
gilded
doors,
and
still
My
lover
comes
not
back
to
me.
False
moon!
False
moon!
O
waning
moon!
Where
is
my
own
true
lover
gone,
Where
are
the
lips
vermilion,
The
shepherd's
crook,
the
purple
shoon?
Why
spread
that
silver
pavilion,
Why
wear
that
veil
of
drifting
mist?
Ah!
thou
hast
young
Endymion,
Thou
hast
the
lips
that
should
be
kissed!