,
Ere fall of the dark.

So light his step, so merry his smile,
A milkmaid loitered beside a stile,
Set down her pail and rested awhile,
A wave-haired milkmaid, rosy and white;
The Prince, who had journeyed at least a mile,
Grew athirst at the sight. 60

'Will you give me a morning draught?'--
'You're kindly welcome,' she said, and laughed.
He lifted the pail, new milk he quaffed;
Then wiping his curly black beard like silk:
'Whitest cow that ever was calved
Surely gave you this milk.'

Was it milk now, or was it cream?
Was she a maid, or an evil dream?
Here eyes began to glitter and gleam;
He would have gone, but he stayed instead; 70
Green they gleamed as he looked in them:
'Give me my fee,' she said.--

'I will give you a jewel of gold.'--
'Not so; gold is heavy and cold.'--
'I will give you a velvet fold
Of foreign work your beauty to deck.'--
'Better I like my kerchief rolled
Light and white round my neck.'--

'Nay,' cried he, 'but fix your own fee.'--
She laughed, 'You may give the full moon to me; 80
Or else sit under this apple-tree
Here for one idle day by my side;
After that I'll let you go free,
And the world is wide.'

Loth to stay, but to leave her slack,
He half turned away, then he quite turned back:
For courtesy's sake he could not lack
To redeem his own royal pledge;
Ahead too the windy heaven lowered black
With a fire-cloven edge. 90

So he stretched his length in the apple-tree shade,
Lay and laughed and talked to the maid,
Who twisted her hair in a cunning braid
And writhed it shining in serpent-coils,
And held him a day and night fast laid
In her subtle toils.

At the death of night and the birth of day,
When the owl left off his sober play,
And the bat hung himself out of the way,
Woke the song of mavis and merle, 100
And heaven put off its hodden grey
For mother-o'-pearl.

Peeped up daisies here and there,
Here, there, and everywhere;
Rose a hopeful lark in the air,
Spreading out towards the sun his breast;
While the moon set solemn and fair
Away in the West.

'Up, up, up,' called the watchman lark,
In his clear reveillee: 'Hearken, oh hark! 110
Press to the high goal, fly to the mark.
Up, O sluggard, new morn is born;
If still asleep when t