THE SERENADE TO FLOWER-O'-THE-THORN.
John Addington Symonds translation
No. 16.
The blithe young year is upward steering. Wild winter dwindles, disappearing; The short, short days are growing longer, Rough weather yields and warmth is stronger. Since January dawned, my mind Waves hither, thither, love-inclined For one whose will can loose or bind. Prudent and very fair the maiden, Than rose or lily more love-laden; Stately of stature, lithe and slender, There's naught so exquisite and tender. The Queen of France is not so dear; Death to my life comes very near If Flower-o'-the-thorn be not my cheer. The Queen of Love my heart is killing With her gold arrow pain-distilling; The God of Love with torches burning Lights pyre on pyre of ardent yearning. She is the girl for whom I'd die; I want none dearer, far or nigh, Though grief on grief upon me lie. I with her love am thralled and taken, Whose flower doth flower, bud, bloom, and waken; Sweet were the labour, light the burden, Could mouth kiss mouth for wage and guerdon. No touch of lips my wound can still, Unless two hearts grow one, one will, One longing! Flower of flowers, farewell!
Once at least we find him writing in absence to his mistress, and imploring her fidelity. This ranks among the most delicate in sentiment of the whole series.