"Or what will ye give me for my son?" (Red rose leaves will never make wine.) "Six times to kiss his young mouth on." The ways are sair fra' the Till to the Tyne. "But what have ye done with the bearing-bread, And what have ye made of the washing-wine? Or where have ye made your bearing-bed, To bear a son in the sides of Tyne?" "The bearing-bread is soft and new, There is no soil in the straining wine; The bed was made between green and blue, It stands full soft by the sides of Tyne. "The fair grass was my bearing-bread, The well-water my washing-wine; The low leaves were my bearing-bed, And that was best in the sides of Tyne." "O daughter, if ye have done this thing, I wot the greater grief is mine; This was a bitter child-bearing, When ye were got by the sides of Tyne. "About the time of sea-swallows That fly full thick by six and nine, Ye'll have my body out of the house, To bury me by the sides of Tyne. "Set nine stones by the wall for twain," (Red rose leaves will never make wine) "For the bed I take will measure ten." The ways are sair fra' the Till to the Tyne. "Tread twelve girl's paces out for three," (Red rose leaves will never make wine) "For the pit I made has taken me." The ways are sair fra' the Till to the Tyne. THE YEAR OF LOVE There were four loves that one by one, Following the seasons and the sun, Passed over without tears, and fell Away without farewell. The first was made of gold and tears, The next of aspen-leaves and fears, The third of rose-boughs and rose-roots, The last love of strange fruits. These were the four loves faded. Hold Some minutes fast the time of gold When our lips each way clung and clove To a face full of love. The tears inside our eyelids met, Wrung forth with kissing, and wept wet The faces cleaving each to each Where the blood served for speech. The second, with low patient brows Bound under aspen-coloured boughs And eyes made strong and grave with sleep And yet too weak to weep-- The third, with eager mouth at ease Fed from late autumn honey, lees Of scarce gold left in latter cells With scattered flower-smells-- Hair sprinkled over with spoilt sweet Of ruined roses, wrists and feet Slight-swathed, as grassy-girdled sheaves Hold in stray poppy-leaves-- The fourth, with lips whereon has bled Some great pale fruit's slow colour, shed From the rank bitter husk whence drips Faint blood between her lips-- Made of the heat of whole great Junes Burning the blue dark round their moons (Each like a mown red marigold) So hard the flame keeps hold-- These are burnt thoroughly away. Only the first holds out a day Beyond these latter loves that were Made of mere heat and air. And now the time is winterly The first love fades too: none will see, When April warms the world anew, The place wherein love grew.