white bird, what song art thou singing In wintry weather of lands o'er sea？ Dear white bird, what way art thou winging, Where no grass grows, and no green tree？

    I looked at the far off fields and grey, There grew no tree but the cypress¹ tree, That bears sad fruits with the flowers of May, And whoso looks on it, woe² is he.

    And whoso eats of the fruit thereof Has no more sorrow³, and no more love； And who sets the same in his garden stead, In a little space he is waste and dead.