The Seeds of Love

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I sowed the seeds of love, it was all in the spring,

In April, May, and June, likewise, when small birds they do sing;

My garden’s well planted with flowers everywhere,

Yet I had not the liberty to choose for myself the flower that I loved so dear.

My gardener he stood by, I asked him to choose for me,

He chose me the violet, the lily and pink, but those I refused all three;

The violet I forsook, because it fades so soon,

The lily and the pink I did o’erlook, and I vowed I’d stay till June.

In June there’s a red rose-bud, and that’s the flower for me!

But often have I plucked at the red rose-bud till I gained the willow-tree;

The willow-tree will twist, and the willow-tree will twice, –

O! I wish I was in the dear youth’s arms that once had the heart of mine.

My gardener he stood by, he told me to take great care,

For in the middle of a red rose-bud there grows a sharp thorn there;

I told him I’d take no care till I did feel the smart,

And often I plucked at the red rose-bud till I pierced it to the heart.

I’ll make me a posy of hyssop, – no other I can touch, –

That all the world may plainly see I love one flower too much;

My garden is run wild! where shall I plant anew –

For my bed, that once was covered with thyme, is all overrun with rue?

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