Poetry Archives

I laved my hands
By the water-side,
With willow leaves
My hands I dried.

The nightingale sang
On the bough of a tree,
Sing, sweet nightingale,
It is well with thee.

Thou hast heart’s delight,
I have sad heart’s sorrow,
For a false false maid
That will wed to-morrow.

It is all for a rose
That I gave her not,
And I would that it grew
In the garden plot,

And I would the rose-tree
Were still to set,
That my love Marie
Might love me yet!