The end of true love is to sit and mourn;
Heigh ho, the end of love!
Under the shadow of the naked thorn,
With his thin boughs above.
The end of true love is to lie and weep;
Heigh ho, to weep alone!
On the cold bosom of the mountain steep,
By a gray boulder stone.
The end of true love is to fare forth far;
Heigh ho, the empty ways!
To the bare places where the great winds are.
And there to spend his days.
The end of true love is a sorry end;
Heigh ho, the weary death!
Marvel it is that everyman should tend
Poor love which vanisheth.
Love’s is a life not any leech may save;
So, since he’s fair,
And thou must full soon lay him in his grave,
Be love thy care.
1917.