Blowing gently against her face is the
While the brook flows along,
Underneath the willow.
She sits under its drooping branches,
A green curtain about her face.
The wind plays with the flowers at her
While she sits here and writes,
Dawn turns to dusk.
Here underneath the willow.
She hears her mother calling,
Now she must leave this little place of solitude,
Under the willow.