WHAT of all the colours shall I bring you for your fairing,
Fit to lay your fingers on, fine enough for you ?
Yellow for the ripened rye, white for ladies' wearing,
Red for briar-roses, or the skies' own blue ?
Nay, for spring has touched the elm, spring has found the willow,
Winds that call the swallow home sway the boughs apart;
Green shall all my curtains be, green shall be my pillow,
Green I'll wear within my hair, and green upon my heart.
