Arbor Amoris.

I have a tree, a graft of Love,1
                        
                        That in my heart has taken root ;2
                        
                        Sad are the buds and blooms thereof3
                        
                        And bitter sorrow is its fruit ;4
                        
                        Yet, since it was a tender shoot,5
                        
                        So greatly hath its shadow spread,6
                        
                        
That underneath all joy is dead,7
                        
                        And all my pleasant days are flown,8
                        
                        Nor can I slay it, nor instead9
                        
                        Plant any tree, save this alone.10
                        Ah, yet, for long and long enough11
                        
                        My tears were rain about its root,12
                        
                        And though the fruit be harsh thereof,13
                        
                        I scarcely looked for better fruit14
                        
                        Than this, that carefully I put15
                        
                        In garner, for the bitter bread16
                        
                        Whereon my weary life is fed :17
                        
                        Ah, better were the soil unsown18
                        
                        That bears such growths, but Love instead19
                        
                        Will plant no tree, but this alone.20
                        Ah, would that this new spring, whereof21
                        
                        The leaves and flowers flush into shoot,22
                        
                        I might have succour and aid of Love23
                        
                        To prune these branches at the root,24
                        
                        That long have borne such bitter fruit ;25
                        
                        And graft a new bough, comforted26
                        
                        With happy blossoms white and red,27
                        
                        So pleasure should for pain atone,28
                        
                        Nor Love slay this tree, nor instead29
                        
                        Plant any tree, but this alone.30
                        L’Envoy.
Princess, by whom my hopes are fed,31
                        
                        My heart thee prays in lowlihead32
                        
                        To prune the ill boughs overgrown,33
                        
                        Nor slay Love’s tree, nor plant instead34
                        
                        Another tree, save this alone.35