By Red-Ripe Mouth And Brown, Luxurious Eyes Of Her I Love, By All Your Sweetness Shed In Far, Fair Days, On One Whose Memory Flies To Faithless Lights, And Gracious Speech Gainsaid, I Pray You, When Yon River-Path I Tread, Make With The Woodlands Some Soft Compromise, Lest They Should Vex Me Into Fruitless Sighs With Visions Of A Woman'S Gleaming Head! For Every Green And Golden-Hearted Thing That Gathers Beauty In That Shining Place, Beloved Of Beams And Wooed By Wind And Wing, Is Rife With Glimpses Of Her Marvellous Face; And In The Whispers Of The Lips Of Spring The Music Of Her Lute-Like Voice I Trace.