It being in the springtime, and the lilies, they were blooming,

Along the banks and bowers, the willow trees did sway,

To attend the golden hours, and while away her glooming,

Beyond the old town boundaries, she wandered on her way.

Through wild and weary woodland, the thrushes sang their story,

As foxes played where young hares strayed, the chase their only care,

But him not there to share the day, she’d sooner waste its glory;

She stopped to light her cigarette and honour their affair. 

He said “My dear, I’m leaving; I cannot say the reason

My cold heart so deceives, nor why your own it thus betrayed,

Why love that flowed like summer wine’s grown bitter with the season,

Yet just as daylight dims to dusk, the brightest feelings fade.” 

She answered “Linger, darling, for I’ve a final favour,

One chance is all I’d wager to prove my love is true,

Command me any evil you would choose, and I’ll not waver,

For what its master bade, my slavish heart could not refuse.”

The ground grows warm beneath her head, the willow trees surround her,

Among the woodland’s swansong, the thrushes all alight,

And once the fire has found her, she’ll slumber all the sounder,

The forest floor, her funeral pyre, to light his hungry night.