Classic Poem

Who loves me here and has my love,
I think he will not tire of me,
But sing contented as the dove
That comes again to the woodland tree.

He shall have summer sweets and dress
His pleasure to the changing clime,
And I can teach him happiness
That shall not fail in winter-time.
[or He shall have summer goods and trim
His pleasure to the changing clime,
And I shall know of sweets for him
That are not less in winter-time.]

His cap shall be shining fur,
And stain'd, and knots of golden thread,
He shall be warm with miniver
Lined all with silk of juicy red.

In spring our river-banks are topt
With yellow flags will suit his brow,
In summer are our orchards knopt┬░
With green-white apples on the bough.

But if I cannot tempt his thought
With wealth that mocks his high degree,
The shepherds, whom I value not,
Have told me I am fair to see.