The Blossom

On a day—alack the day!—

Love, whose month is ever May,

Spied a blossom passing fair

Playing in the wanton air:

Through the velvet leaves the wind

All unseen can passage find;

That the lover, sick to death,

Wish'd himself the heaven's breath.

Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow;

Air, would I might triumph so!

But, alack, my hand is sworn

Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn:

Vow, alack, for youth unmeet;

Youth so apt to pluck a sweet!

Do not call it sin in me

That I am forsworn for thee;

Thou for whom Jove would swear

Juno but an Ethiop were;

And deny himself for Jove,

Turning mortal for thy love.

— William Shakespeare
1564-1616