Shy thoughts and grave hands do wander as they're kissed.
From furrow to furrow, within the palms of amethyst.
How frail is your tongue, whose sound is gone sere?
Will it cleave a tasteful song?
The means are still unclear.
With shy thoughts and torn wide eyes.
Welladay, welladay!
Can't I beg of you to stay?
Pale lilies in her frail,
dark leaves in my hair.
With dark leers and a sigh, 
is there an armour of snow?
For when I bore a troubled mind
wind whirls, to and fro,
with shy thoughts and scattered wee hands.
Turn away, turn away!
Can't I beg of you to stay?
A vague song of amethyst comes in vain, welladay!
Is there no place for you to stay?
And when the hills come alive the tune to and fro.