| Shy thoughts and grave hands do wander as they're kissed. | |
| From furrow to furrow, within the palms of amethyst. | |
| How frail is your tongue, whose sound is gone sere? | |
| Will it cleave a tasteful song? | |
| The means are still unclear. | |
| With shy thoughts and torn wide eyes. | |
| Welladay, welladay! | |
| Can't I beg of you to stay? | |
| Pale lilies in her frail, | |
| dark leaves in my hair. | |
| With dark leers and a sigh, | |
| is there an armour of snow? | |
| For when I bore a troubled mind | |
| wind whirls, to and fro, | |
| with shy thoughts and scattered wee hands. | |
| Turn away, turn away! | |
| Can't I beg of you to stay? | |
| A vague song of amethyst comes in vain, welladay! | |
| Is there no place for you to stay? | |
| And when the hills come alive the tune to and fro. |
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