Under the long dark boughs, like jewels red
In the hair of an Eastern girl
Hang strings of crimson cherries, as if had bled
Blood-drops beneath each curl.

Under the glistening cherries, with folded wings
Three dead birds lie:
Pale-brested throstles and a blackbird, robberlings
Stained with red dye.

Against the haystack a girl stands laughing at me,
With cherries hung round her ears.
Offering me her scarlet fruit: I will see
If she has any tears.