Is he to blame for the Heaven that made him
A heart full of tenderness meet to enslave?
When my love comes I will promise him roses,
Gift for the gift that he laid in my breast.
O, for that promise his kindness discloses,
Will he not kiss me and make me his blest?
There’s a cry in the air of the cuckoo, sweet comer;
The daffodils blow and there’s green on the tree;
There’s a nest in the roof that is empty since summer—
When my love comes will he warm it for me?