To the Willow-tree

When once the lover's rose is dead

Or laid aside forlorn,

Then willow-garlands, 'bout the head,

Bedew'd with tears, are worn.

When with neglect, the lover's bane,

Poor maids rewarded be,

For their love lost their only gain

Is but a wreath from thee.

And underneath thy cooling shade,

When weary of the light,

The love-spent youth, and love-sick maid,

Come to weep out the night.