Summer

Come we to the summer, to the summer we will come,     For the woods are full of bluebells and the hedges full of bloom,     And the crow is on the oak a-building of her nest,     And love is burning diamonds in my true lovers breast;     She sits beneath the whitethorn a-plaiting of her hair,     And I will to my true lover with a fond request repair;     I will look upon her face, I will in her beauty rest,     And lay my aching weariness upon her lovely breast.     The clock-a-clay is creeping on the open bloom of May,     The merry bee is trampling the pinky threads all day,     And the chaffinch it is brooding on its grey mossy nest     In the whitethorn bush where I will lean upon my lovers breast;     Ill lean upon her breast and Ill whisper in her ear     That I cannot get a wink osleep for thinking of my dear;     I hunger at my meat and I daily fade away     Like the hedge rose that is broken in the heat of the day.