Of a true love clean and derne
I have now written thee a Ron,
How thou might, if thou wilt, learn
For to love thy Leman
That truest is of alle bearn;
And more of love there knoweth none:
Beware, for He is somewhat stern,
His eye is ever thee upon.

Thou art wrought of such a kind,
Withouten love thou may not be;
And nevermore shalt thou find
One so sweet and fair as He.
If thou wilt Him to thee bind
With true love-bondes three,
With all thine heart and will and mind, —
Then from thee will He never flee.

I love the awthorn well
The first green thing
In woods & hedges — black thorn dell
Dashed with its green first spring
When sallows shine in golden shene
These white thorn places in the black how green.

How beautifully green
Though March has but begun
To tend primroses planted in the sun
The roots thats further in
Are not begun to bud or may be just begun.

I love the white thorn bough
Hung over the mole hill
Where the spring feeding cow
Rubs off the dew drop chill
When on the cowslip pips & glossy thorn

Along the edge of the great, moving sea —
That moaned forever on her barren bars,
The old, sad love came back again to me,
Moving quietly under the quiet stars.

O sad love, do not smile upon me so,
Nodding so gently with your little head —
All the old wonder of your eyes is dead,
And the sea-winds have chilled you long ago!

Sing, O sing again, lovely lark of mine,
Sitting there alone amidst the green of May!

In the prison-tower the lad sits mournfully;
To his father writes, to his mother writes:
Thus he wrote, and these, these were the very words:
“O good father mine, thou belovèd sir!
O good mother mine, thou belovèd dame!
Ransom me, I pray, ransom the good lad,—
He is your beloved, is your only son!”
Father, mother,—both,—both refused to hear,
Cursed their hapless race, cursed their hapless seed:
“Never did a thief our honest name disgrace,—

Nightingale, O nightingale,
Nightingale so full of song!
Tell me, tell me, where thou fliest,
Where to sing now in the night?
Will another maiden hear thee,
Like to me, poor me, all night
Sleepless, restless, comfortless,
Ever full of tears her eyes?
Fly, O fly, dear nightingale,
Over hundred countries fly,
Over the blue sea so far!
Spy the distant countries through,
Town and village, hill and dell,
Whether thou find'st anyone,
Who so sad is as I am?

Oh, I bore a necklace once,
All of pearls like morning dew;

Carnations and my first love! And he was seventeen,
And I was only twelve years — a stately gulf between!
I broke them on the morning the school-dance was to be,
To pin among my ribbons in hopes that he might see. ...
And all the girls stood breathless to watch as he came through
With curly crest and grand air that swept the heart from you!
And why he paused at my side is more than I can know —
Shyest of the small girls who all adored him so —
I said it with my prayer-times: I walked with head held high:

Dear Love, it was so hard to say
Good-bye to-day!
You turned to go, yet going turned to stay!
Till suddenly at last you went away.

Then all at last I found my love unsaid,
And bowed my head;
And went in tears up to my lonely bed —
Oh, would it be like this if you were dead?

Tall grows the nettle by the hedgeway side
& bye the old barn end they shade the wall
In sunshine nodding to the angry tide
Of winds that winnows bye — these one & all
Makes up the harmony of Spring — & all
That passes feel a sudden love for flowers
They look so green — & when the soft showers fall
They grow so fast — Dock Burdocks Henbane — all
Who loves not wild flowers bye the old stone wall

The Larks in the sky love
The flowers on the lea
The white thorn's in bloom love
To please thee & me
Neath its shade we can rest love
& sit on the hill
& as we met last love
Enjoy the spring still.

The spring is for lovers
The spring is for joy
Oer the moor where the plovers
Wir hover & cry
We'll seek the white thorn love
& sit on the hill
On some sunny morn love
& be lover's still.

Where the partridge is craiking
From morning to e'en
In the wheatlands awaking

Before the dawn the very thought of you,
That wakes me, as the morning wakes the night,
Floods all my heart with most exultant joy.

The thought of you that rises with the stars,
When evening wheels all glittering through the dark,
Floods all my heart with most exultant joy.

O life and joy and breath and death of me,
With every breath I draw you in like air!
O I shall die of you, of you, of you!

Though now you banish me forevermore,
Never to look upon your face again—
Think you that I shall sorrow for my love?