To the Willow-Tree
Thou art to all lost love the best,The only true plant found,Wherewith young men and maids distrestAnd left of love, are crown'd.
When once the lover's rose is deadOr laid aside forlorn,Then willow-garlands, 'bout the head,Bedew'd with tears, are worn.
When with neglect, the lover's bane,Poor maids rewarded be,For their love lost their only gainIs but a wreath from thee.
And underneath thy cooling shade,When weary of the light,The love-spent youth, and love-sick maid,Come to weep out the night.
Sign in to like, rate and collect poems, and keep track of what you've read.