William Drummond of Hawthornden (1585–1649)

DEAR chorister, who from those shadows sends,

Ere that the blushing morn dare shew her light,

Such sad lamenting strains, that night attends—

Become all ear—stars stay to hear thy plight;

If one whose grief even reach of thought transcends,

Who ne’er—not in a dream—did taste delight,

May thee importune who like case pretends,

And seems to joy in woe, in woe’s despite;

Tell me,—so may thou fortune milder try

And long, long sing—for what thou thus complains,

Sith winter’s gone and sun in dappled sky

Enamoured smiles on woods and flowery plains?

The bird, as if my questions did her move,

With trembling wings, sighed forth, ‘I love, I love!’