Video Transcription
leaves in the glassy stream, there weep fantastic garlands, did she make, of craft flowers,
nether-daisies, and long purples, that liberal shepherds give a grosser name. But our cold
maids do that man's fingers call them. There, on the pendant bow her crowded weaves
clambering to hand, an amber silver brook, while down her witty trophies and herself
fell in the weeping brook, her clothes spread wide, and learned like a wild a boy her arms,