When Spring comes back to England
—And crowns her brows with May,
Round the merry moonlit world
—She goes the greenwood way:
She throws a rose to Italy,
—A fleur-de-lys to France;
But round her regal morris-ring
—The seas of England dance.

When Spring comes back to England
—And dons her robe of green,
There's many a nation garlanded
—But England is the Queen;
She's Queen, she's Queen of all the world
—Beneath the laughing sky,
For the nations go a-Maying
—When they hear the New Year cry—

When Sol did cast no light,
being darken'd over,
And the dark time of night
did the skies cover,
Running a river by
There were ships sailing,
A maid most fair I spy'd,
crying and wailing.

Unto this maid I stept,
asking what griev'd her,
She answer'd me and wept,
fates had deceiv'd her:
My love is prest, quoth she,
to cross the ocean,
Proud waves to make the ship
ever in motion.

We lov'd seven years and more,
both being sure,
But I am left on shore,
grief to endure.
He promis'd back to turn,

When shall I see the half-moon sink again
Behind the black sycamore at the end of the garden?
When will the scent of the dim white phlox
Creep up the wall to me, and in at my open window?
Why is it, the long, slow stroke of the midnight bell
(Will it never finish the twelve?)
Falls again and again on my heart with a heavy reproach?

The moon-mist is over the village, out of the mist speaks the bell,
And all the little roofs of the village bow low, pitiful, beseeching, resigned.
— Speak, you my home! what is it I don't do well?

When raging love with extreme pain
Most cruelly distrains my heart,
When that my tears, as floods of rain,
Bear witness of my woeful smart;
When sighs have wasted so my breath
That I lie at the point of death,

I call to mind the navy great
That the Greeks brought to Troye town,
And how the boistous winds did beat
Their ships, and rent their sails adown;
Till Agamemnon's daughter's blood
Appeased the gods that them withstood.

And how that in those ten years' war
Full many a bloody deed was done,

When my love becomes
All-powerful,
I turn inside out
My garments of the night,
Night dark as leopard-flower.

When love's brief dream is done
Pass on. Nor hope to see again
The burnished glow of yesterday
Gone with its setting sun.

Know this, the little while of love
Is fleeting as a cloud,
As lissom as a zephyr's breath,
As fickle as a crowd.

Its gleaming rainbow flames the sky —
Enthralls — then fades from sight:
Love for a day, an hour and then —
Remember through the night.

When love on time and measure makes his ground —
Time that must end, though love can never die, —
'Tis love betwixt a shadow and a sound,
A love not in the heart but in the eye;
A love that ebbs and flows, now up, now down;
A morning's favour and an evening's frown.

Sweet looks show love, yet they are but as beams;
Fair words seem true, yet they are but as wind;
Eyes shed their tears, yet are but outward streams;
Sighs paint a sadness in the falsest mind:
Looks, words, tears, sighs, show love when love they leave:

When love meets love, breast urged to breast,
God interposes,
An unacknowledged guest,
And leaves a little child among our roses.

O, gentle hap!
O, sacred lap!
O, brooding dove!
But when he grows
Himself to be a rose,
God takes him—where is then our love?
O, where is all our love?

When I was young, love, and in full blossom
All young men then came surrounding me.
When I was young, love, and well-behaved,
A false young man came a-courting me.

So love it is pleasing, love it is teasing
And love is a treasure when first it's new,
But as it grows older it still grows colder
And fades away like the morning dew.

I left my father, I left my mother,
I left my brothers and sisters too,
I left my home and my kind relations,
Forsaked them all for the love of you.

So girls beware of your false young lovers,

When I survey the wondrous cross
On which the Prince of Glory died,
My richest gain I count but loss,
And pour contempt on all my pride.

Forbid it, Lord, that I should boast
Save in the cross of Christ my God.
All vain things that charm me most
I sacrifice them to his flood.

See from his head, his hands, his feet,
Sorrow and love flowed mingling down.
Did e'er such love and sorrow meet
Or thorns compose so rich a crown?

His dying crimson like a robe
Spreads o'er his body on the tree.
When I am dead to all the globe,