William Henry Davies

The Flood

I THOUGHT my true love slept;
Behind her chair I crept
    And pulled out a long pin; 
The golden flood came out,
She shook it all about,
    With both our faces in.

Ah! little wren, I know
Your mossy, small nest now
    A windy, cold place is; 
No eye can see my face,
Howe'er it watch the place
    Where I half drown in bliss.

When I am drowned hald dead,
She laughs and shakes her head;
    Flogged by her hair-waves, I 
Withdraw my face from there;
But never once, I swear,
    She heard a mercy cry.