I HAVE a tree, a graft¹ of Love, That in my heart has taken root； Sad are the buds and blooms thereof, And bitter sorrow is its fruit； Yet, since it was a tender shoot, So greatly hath its shadow spread, That underneath² all joy is dead, And all my pleasant days are flown, Nor can I slay³ it, nor instead Plant any tree, save this alone.

    Ah, yet, for long and long enough My tears were rain about its root, And though the fruit be harsh thereof, I scarcely looked for better fruit Than this, that carefully I put In garner⁴, for the bitter bread Whereon my weary life is fed： Ah, better were the soil unsown That bears such growths； but Love instead Will plant no tree, but this alone.

    Ah, would that this new spring, whereof The leaves and flowers flush into shoot, I might have succour and aid of Love, To prune⁵ these branches at the root, That long have borne such bitter fruit, And graft a new bough⁶, comforted With happy blossoms white and red； So pleasure should for pain atone⁷, Nor Love slay this tree, nor instead Plant any tree, but this alone.