Isa in the garden stands,
And the winds, with unseen hands,
Lift the midnight of her hair
From her brow so white and fair.
Isa plucks with finger-tips
One sweet rose; her crimson lips
Match the colour and the tone,
But the dew is all their own.
And I think, as Isa stands
With the rose within her hands,
Other sounds are in her ear
Than the river's gliding near.
Whispers soft as whispers be
When love lends its voice, and she
Hears its thrilling music stream
Through the wonder-gate of dream.
And then gentle whispers say—
'Isa, Isa, come away,
We have in our fairy bower
One sweet spray of orange flower;
'This we keep to clasp your brow
When your heart has breathed its vow,
And you move away beside
One who claims you as his bride.'
Isa smiles as still she stands
With the rose within her hands,
So I turn away and leave
Isa yet a maiden Eve.