A true story that had trodden its way,
Up in the hills, among the daffodils,
Story of a lover, whose love deceased,
High in the hills, the corpse been freezed,

Wandering loves often lose their threads,
But the one like ours’ do rare,
Love, which didn’t mean, could collapse
But ours’ was eloquent, was debonair,

Thou chatter, when, when thy reverence upsurge,
Thou hath cleared thy route for thy flight,
Thou thwart, never, thou hath parched thy dirge,
Thy heart very vast combat apartheid,

When my picturesque love, sway her hairs,
Her tresses curl around to cover her alluring eyes,
Her timid mouth when flourish the furrow of her lips,
Her bashful visage; the nose it beautifies,