Classic Poem

O CUCKOO of the wood art not grieved at my mood?
At eve heavy-dewed, I'm suspiring;
I would stray with my love in the shade of the grove,
Where'er we might rove none enquiring;
I would face the wind's breath on the hill of the heath,
My bed in the teeth of distresses,
Thy white form refined stretched out by my side,
While I fond multiplied my caresses.

I saw in a dream, no lie did it seem,
What my heart made extremely sad,
A man with a maid whose lips he essayed,
Nor fondling delayed, having wed,
It freshened my fire, renewed my desire,
I wept in my direful swither,
Each artery and vein from the depth of my frame,
They leaped unrestrained together.

On thee is my trust, my vigour I've lost,
I for thee suffer most heavy wounding;
Thy smile would restore my health to the core,
Joy would flow to me more abounding;
I would come thee to meet, I'd welcome thee, sweet,
To thee be complete reconciled,
My dear, my desire, my joy, and my fire,
Like the sun, maid, entire undefiled.

By thine arrow I fell, thou my luck didst dispel,
I yielded by fell strength of weather,
And, alas, thy love dart is stuck in each part,
Thou hast reft me my heart altogether.
Thou hast ruined my face, and stolen my grace,
And deepened each trace of depression;
Unless thou beguile me with welcome and smile,
Death's in a short while my obsession.

Thy hair in waved whorls, in light yellow curls,
And eyebrows — no churls — the eyes warding,
Cheeks rowan-like rare, breasts lime-white, so fair,
Thy breath like the air of a garden;
Till they place me inside, the slab-house not wide,
I'll be by pain tried that me crushes,
While conning thy traits, thy frolicsome ways
'Neath the blossoming sprays of the bushes.

O sweet is thy mou', thy even teeth too,
And eyes of the hue of the sloe;
The braid thou would wear so gay to the fair,
High as to compare with star glow —
Sad the jealous unrest, at the top of my chest,
Had not hundred-fold pressed thee all over;
Should I find thee set free, wed by the clergy,
The more easy for me to recover.

Thou, maiden, art neat, so handsome and sweet,
With the carol complete of thy mouth;
Being with thee to stay by night and by day
Would the longing allay of my youth.
Thy skin's whiter, lass, than snow on the grass,
Or down on the pass of the moor;
If thou, love, should choose to draw to me close
All sorrow I'd cause to give o'er.

Smooth will they lay the stone and the clay
Round my last stow-away for thy pride;
And long derelict me, I am waiting for thee,
Maid, who won't care to be my sweet bride.
Wert thou sickly to fare I would strip myself bare,
Ere the yoke thou would wear of thy doom,
But short the delay till seen is the day
When a squad toil away at my tomb.

At the outset I curse the maternity nurse,
Who my animate corse did not bury,
Before I knew thee, fresh maiden and free,
That e'en to kiss me would demur aye.
Sick, unwell, wholly waked from my dull folly,
Recollecting the role o' consorting,
My blessing with thee who thyself hast bought me
Young though I might be, with thy courting.