My limbs are wasted with a flame,
    My feet are sore with travelling,
For calling on my Lady’s name
    My lips have now forgot to sing.

O Linnet in the wild-rose brake
    Strain for my Love thy melody,
O Lark sing louder for love’s sake,
    My gentle Lady passeth by.

She is too fair for any man
    To see or hold his heart’s delight,
Fairer than Queen or courtezan
    Or moon-lit water in the night.

Her hair is bound with myrtle leaves,
    (Green leaves upon her golden hair!)
Green grasses through the yellow sheaves
    Of autumn corn are not more fair.

Her little lips, more made to kiss
    Than to cry bitterly for pain,
Are tremulous as brook-water is,
    Or roses after evening rain.

Her neck is like white melilote
    Flushing for pleasure of the sun,
The throbbing of the linnet’s throat
    Is not so sweet to look upon.

As a pomegranate, cut in twain,
    White-seeded, is her crimson mouth,
Her cheeks are as the fading stain
    Where the peach reddens to the south.

O twining hands! O delicate
    White body made for love and pain!
O House of love! O desolate
    Pale flower beaten by the rain!