To the Willow-Tree

Thou art to all lost love the best,

The only true plant found,

Wherewith young men and maids distrest,

And left of love, are crown'd.

When once the lover's rose is dead,

Or laid aside forlorn:

Then willow-garlands 'bout the head

Bedew'd with tears are worn.

When with neglect, the lovers' bane,

Poor maids rewarded be

For their love lost, their only gain

Is but a wreath from thee.