Under green apple-boughs
That never a storm will rouse,
My lady hath her house
⁠Between two bowers;
In either of the twain
Red roses full of rain;
She hath for bondwomen
⁠All kind of flowers.

She hath no handmaid fair
To draw her curled gold hair
Through rings of gold that bear
⁠Her whole hair’s weight;
She hath no maids to stand
Gold-clothed on either hand;
In all the great green land
⁠None is so great.