SHEPHERDESS,—nay, go not yet While the trees are dripping wet From the rain! Come, sit here beneath the eaves Of the grotto till the leaves Dry again. Every lamb is in the fold Huddled safely from the cold And the dews; Stay, the sun will soon appear With a smile to find you here— Don't refuse! See, the mists have pearled your hair And your hands are—I declare! Cold as stone! Nay, 'tis but my arm that slips 'Round your waist—and these my lips 'Gainst your own! |