Avis

Avis, the fair, at dawn
Rose lightly from her bed,
Herself arrayed,
Avis, the fait, the maid,
In vestiment of lawn;
Across the fields she sped,
Five flowerets there she found,
In fragrant garland wound,
Avis, the fair, ar dawn,
Five roses red.

Go thou from thence of thy pity!
Thou lov'st not me.

by Adelaide Crapsey

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