The Lover's Almanac

Oh, hearts that wear the willow,To you I tell my woe,Why thus uncared, ungartered,And all so pale I go.

Come, you wan lovers sighingWho too have felt the thorn.But let none heart-whole lingerTo laugh my grief to scorn.

Demure in church on SundayMy love I chanced to see.Amidst her gentle prayingI vow she looked on me.

On Monday in the meadowI lingered by the stile,She did but touch my fingers.And passed me with a smile.

On Tuesday, mute and rosy,I stood upon her way,My heart it nigh betrayed me,“Good-morrow,” did she say.

With blushing cheek on WednesdayHer path she went all slow;How feared I such a fair maid?—I could not move to go.

On Thursday, brave and daring,I vowed I'd speak her fair,She turned her glances from me,And passed me, head in air.

All pale on Friday morningI waited by her path,She flashed her eyes upon me,And pierced me with their wrath.

On Saturday, if that dayShould ever dawn for me,I'll die for cruel ChlorisBeneath the cypress-tree.