Ballads, Lyrics, and Poems of Old France

I have a tree, a graft of Love,

That in my heart has taken root;

Sad are the buds and blooms thereof,

And bitter sorrow is its fruit;

Yet, since it was a tender shoot,

So greatly hath its shadow spread,

That underneath all joy is dead,

And all my pleasant days are flown,

Nor can I slay it, nor instead

Plant any tree, save this alone.

Ah, yet, for long and long enough

My tears were rain about its root,

And though the fruit be harsh thereof,

I scarcely looked for better fruit

Than this, that carefully I put

In garner, for the bitter bread

Whereon my weary life is fed:

Ah, better were the soil unsown

That bears such growths; but Love instead

Will plant no tree, but this alone.

Ah, would that this new spring, whereof

The leaves and flowers flush into shoot,

I might have succour and aid of Love,

To prune these branches at the root,

That long have borne such bitter fruit,

And graft a new bough, comforted

With happy blossoms white and red;

So pleasure should for pain atone,

Nor Love slay this tree, nor instead

Plant any tree, but this alone.