Flowers white and red my garden has;
  So, when I miss her from my place,
I see a colour through the leaves,
  And think it is her frock or face.

Here, while I sit and read old tales,
  She comes to knit with needles bright;
She shows, by how she stabs with them,
  How she would punish a false knight.

And though she speaks not any word,
  I see, by how she smooths the cloth -
That's stretched across from knee to knee -
  She binds his wounds who bleeds for truth.