There is a willow grows aslant a brook,
That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream.
Therewith 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 pendent boughs her crownet weeds
Climb'ring to hand, an envious sliver broke,
When down the weedy trophies and herself
Fell in the weeping brook. . . .
Whether the willow can love or not,
It is always dancing,
With a beauty that shakes the kingdom. . . .