I went out at the Eastern Gate,
I saw the girls in clouds,
Like clouds they were, and soft and bright,
But in the crowds
I thought on the maid who is my light,
Down-drooping, soft as the grey twilight;
She is my mate.
I went out by the Tower on the Wall,
I saw the girls in flower,
Like flowering rushes they swayed and bent,
But in that hour
I thought on the maid who is my saint,
In her thin white robe and her colouring faint;
She is my all.
