 | Poems and Translations |  |
51
CAMOMILE.
My Love is like the Camomile
(A Lover so complain'd),
That trampled groweth more the while
And flourisheth disdain'd.
The rose upon my Lady's breast
Will fade within an hour;
But that, down-trodden, sore oppress'd,
Outliveth scorn and stour.
(A Lover so complain'd),
That trampled groweth more the while
And flourisheth disdain'd.
The rose upon my Lady's breast
Will fade within an hour;
But that, down-trodden, sore oppress'd,
Outliveth scorn and stour.
So in my heart the bitter weed
Uplifteth its despair,
And bideth until wholesome heed
Shall move my Lady's care:
Content to kiss her trailing gown—
O love-fed Sorrow! smile;
For see, my Lady louteth down
To pluck the Camomile.
Uplifteth its despair,
And bideth until wholesome heed
Shall move my Lady's care:
Content to kiss her trailing gown—
O love-fed Sorrow! smile;
For see, my Lady louteth down
To pluck the Camomile.
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