My love said she had nought to wear;
Her garments all were old,
And soon her body must go bare
Against the winter's cold.

I took her out into the dawn,
And from the mountain's crest
Unwound long wreaths of misty lawn,
And wound them round her breast.

Then passed we to the maple grove,
Like a great hall of gold,
The yellow and the red we wove
In rustling flounce and fold.

'Now, love,' said I, 'go, do it on!
And I would have you note
No lovely lady dead and gone
Had such a petticoat.'

Then span I out of milkweeds fine
Fair stockings soft and long,
And other things of quaint design
That unto maids belong.

And beads of amber and of pearl
About her neck I strung,
And in the bronze of her thick hair
The purple grape I hung. . . .

Then led her to a glassy spring,
And bade her look and see
If any girl in all the world
Had such fine clothes as she.