Classic Poem

When I see blosmes springe
And here foules song,
A swete love-longinge
Min herte thourghout stong,
All for a love newe,
That is so swete and trewe,
That gladieth all my song;
Ich wot all mid iwisse
My joye and eke my blisse
On him is all ilong.

When I miselve stonde
And with min eyen seo
Thurled fot and honde
With grete nailes threo —
Blody wes his heved;
On him nes nout bileved,
That wes of peines freo —
Well well oghte min herte
For his love to smerte
And sike and sory beo.

Jesu, milde and softe,
Gef me streinthe and might
Longen sore and ofte,
To lovie thee aright,
Pine to tholie and dreye
For thee, swete Marye;
Thou art so free and bright,
Maiden and moder milde:
For love of thine childe,
Ernde us hevene light.

Alas, that I ne con
Turne to him my thoght
And cheosen him to lemmon;
So duere he us hath iboght,
With woundes deope and stronge.
With peines sore and longe;
Of love ne conne we noght.
His blod that feol to grounde
Of his swete wounde
Of peine us hath iboght.

Jesu, milde and swete,
I singe thee my song;
Ofte I thee grete
And preye thee among;
Let me sunnes lete,
And in this live bete
That ich have do wrong;
At oure lives ende,
When we shule wende,
Jesu, us undefong!