To the Willow-tree

Thou art to all lost love the best,The only true plant found,Wherewith young men and maids distres't,And left of love, are crown'd.

When once the lover's rose is dead,Or laid aside forlorn:Then willow-garlands 'bout the headBedew'd with tears are worn.

When with neglect, the lovers' bane,Poor maids rewarded be,For their love lost, their only gainIs but a wreath from thee.

And underneath thy cooling shade,When weary of the light,The love-spent youth and love-sick maidCome to weep out the night.