The Willow

There is a willow grows aslant a brook,

That shows his hoary leaves in the glassy stream.

There with fantastic garlands did she make Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples,

That liberal shepherds give a grosser name, But our cold maids do dead men’s fingers call them.

There on the pendant boughs her coronet weeds Clamb’ring to hang, an envious sliver broke,

When down her weedy trophies and herself Fell in the weeping brook.

Her clothes spread wide, And mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up,

Which time she chaunted snatches of old tunes,

As one incapable of her own distress,

Or like a creature native and indued Unto that element.

But long it could not be Till that her garments, heavy with their drink,

Pull’d the poor wretch from her melodious lay

To muddy death.