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!