When I think of her I love so deep.
Each day I seek the Wood of Love so dear,
In hopes to see you at its streamlet clear.
When I see you come through the forest grove,
On its leaves I write the secrets of my love.
—But a fragile trust are the forest leaves,
To hold the secrets close which their page receives.
When comes the storm of rain, and gusty air,
Your secrets close are scattered everywhere.
'T were safer far, young clerk, on my heart to write.