Aye me! That you have had to treat me so!
You were my sweetest joy, how is it so
That now your once gentle look must scorn me
Like the calm sweet snow of February
That melts with the warmth of March and Avril
Only for mud and rough rocks to reveal.
Aye me! That you dare to think to woo me!
Indeed the song-bird in the blossom tree
Sings for no such master but her pleasure;
How then can you hold me to your leisure?
The bird that sings upon the branch of Spring
Knows well Who is listening to her sing.
Would I were Solomon, I could tell ye
What prayers and songs her Master does levy
Upon her, free as you yourself may be.
That is true: the bird must have her Maker
But you are no such to me or to her.
You who must ride upon the winding road
And forsake me for some distant abode.
O how could it be that I would submit
When you are both traveler and hermit?
The great path I tread is rough it is true
But could it not also be made with you?
Come sweet shepherdess; leave you flock and fields
I fear to be whole only when you yield.