Classic Poem

I have no lust or care
To sing of Mary
I praise the quaint sweet air
Of a mortal lady.

She is not clothed in sad
Raiment like Mary,
But in cloth and silk that is glad
And full seemly.

Her eyes are not tear-rimmed
Like those of Mary;
Only with love are they dimmed
When she kisses me.

By God, though she be God's mother,
I care not for Mary,
Only to serve this other
That is so dear to me.