Image by Rosie Hopkins.

Dost ask me, why I send thee here
The firstling of the infant year:
This lovely native of the vale,
That hangs so pensive and so pale?

Look on its bending stalk, so weak.
That, each way yielding, doth not break,
And see how aptly it reveals
The doubts and fears a lover feels.

Look on its leaves of yellow hue
Bepearl’d thus with morning dew,
And these will whisper in thine ears: –
‘ The sweets of loves are wash’d with tears.’