Low laughing, blithely scorning -- Beware, beware, of flaming wings, Love hunts thee down the morning! His white feet dip i' the hillside springs, He mocks thy flying terror! The woodland with his laughter rings! He'll make thee his slave to follow, Nor shall he forgive thee, maid, thine error, Who spied thee hid in the hollow. Too late, too late the warning! Behold the flash of flaming wings -- Love hath thee now i' the morning! |