My love is like the White Dove tree,
which, growning doth not question why.
And doth not root itself in thee,
nor shade thee from the summer sky.
And if, through love, this gentle heart breaks
in a thousand jagged parts
these shall not fall on thee as mirrors,
nor swords, nor stars, nor even tears,
but they shall fall as leaves that know -
now - is the amber time to go.