of lily-of-the-valley She lay beside me in the dawn. An Immorality Sing we for love and idleness, Naught else is worth the having. Though I have been in many a land, There is naught else in living. And I would rather have my sweet, Though rose-leaves die of grieving, Than do high deeds in Hungary To pass all men's believing. Ione,Dead the Long Year Empty are the ways, Empty are the ways of this land And the flowers Bend over with heavy heads. They bend in vain. Empty are the ways of this land Where lone Walked once,and now does not walk But seems like a person just gone. A Virginal No,no!Go from me.I have left her lately. I will not spoil my sheath with lesser brightness. For my surrounding air hath a new lightness, Slight are her arms,yet they have bound me straitly And left me cloaked as with a gauze of aether; As with sweet leaves;as with subtle clearness. Oh,I have picked up magic in her nearness To sheathe me half in half the things that sheathe her. No,no!Go from me.I have still the flavour, Soft as spring wind that's come from birchen bowers. Green come the shoots,aye April in the branches, As winter's wound with her sleight hand she staunches, Hath of the trees a likeness of the savour:2 of lily-of-the-valley She lay beside me in the dawn. An Immorality Sing we for love and idleness, Naught else is worth the having. Though I have been in many a land, There is naught else in living. And I would rather have my sweet, Though rose-leaves die of grieving, Than do high deeds in Hungary To pass all men's believing. Ione, Dead the Long Year Empty are the ways, Empty are the ways of this land And the flowers Bend over with heavy heads. They bend in vain. Empty are the ways of this land Where Ione Walked once, and now does not walk But seems like a person just gone. A Virginal No, no! Go from me. I have left her lately. I will not spoil my sheath with lesser brightness, For my surrounding air hath a new lightness; Slight are her arms, yet they have bound me straitly And left me cloaked as with a gauze of aether; As with sweet leaves; as with subtle clearness. Oh, I have picked up magic in her nearness To sheathe me half in half the things that sheathe her. No, no! Go from me. I have still the flavour, Soft as spring wind that's come from birchen bowers. Green come the shoots, aye April in the branches, As winter's wound with her sleight hand she staunches, Hath of the trees a likeness of the savour: