Then her hands and her cheek of snow,
Whiter than milk in a black pail, show.
Yes, if you could my sweetheart see,
She would charm the heart from thee.
Had I as many crowns at my beck,
As hath the Marquis of Poncalec;
Had I a gold-mine at my door,—
Wanting my sweetheart, I were poor.
If on my door-sill up should come
Golden flowers for furze and broom,
Till my court were with gold piled high,
Little I’d reck, but she were by.
Doves must have their close warm nest,
Corpses must have the tomb for rest;
Souls to Paradise must depart,—
And I, my love, must to thy heart.
Every Monday at dawn of day
I’ll on my knees to the cross by the way;
At the new cross by the way I’ll bend,
In thy honour, my gentle friend!
The Secrets of the Clerk.
LATER BRETON
Each night, each night, as on my bed I lie,
I do not sleep, but turn myself and cry.
I do not sleep, but turn myself and weep,
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.