Willow, willow, by the bay,
windy currents, swayed and sway,
through her green youth--she and I--
aging, aging, for thy sky.

Like a song thrush, strewd and fair,
but lost its tune with the air--
Falling, falling, deeper still,
For a single brush of thrill.

She who weaves her lord a song,
she who sings an urge of wrong,
covets nil but his return
per se even, taciturn.

Heart he tarnish, love he quells,
ninny, ninny, still she dwells,
knowing quite well how inane
to wish for love meant to wane.

She yearns to view golden rye,
far mountains with silver dye...

But--

Bound beneath the willow tree...
only one can set her free...