I mourned beneath the willow tree,
When shrouded came a nymph to me
And slid her hand in mine.
Her boldness I did much upbraid,
And said 'Begone, thou wanton maid;
I seek no love of thine!
'Nor do I hope to wake again
My heart all stricken with disdain,
And drive it forth to woo.
No! no! Forlorn I sit and sigh,
And call on Death to let me die,
Since Phyllis is untrue.'
'Ah!' cried the maid, 'why therefore chide,
Since I indeed am fitting bride
For one so pale and wan?'
She held me in a close embrace,
Nor could I see her hidden face,
And still I cried 'Begone!'
'If thou art Love, thy labour's vain;
I hold thy boldness in disdain,
I care no more to woo.
But be thou Death, for whom I cry,
Thy lover then indeed am I,
Since Phyllis is untrue.'

'Oh! I am Love,' she whispered low,
'And fain I too with Death would go;
My lover—cold is he,
Who bids me fly the trysting-place.'
She raised the veil from off her face—
My Phyllis smiled on me!