She is painting rings around her eyes,
these peppered holes so filled with crying.
Tell me now, tell me this,
a forest's son, a river's daughter?
Fourteen occupations must be paid,
to pass the idle hours.
"Thou unconsolable daughter..." says the sister.
Please array a path for me,
the woods are growing thick and fast around...
Columbine, columbine, please alert this love of mine---
let him know his Margaret comes along...
You'll learn soon enough:
the prettiest whistles won't wrestle the thistles undone.