On the field an oak-tree rises;
On the oak-tree sits a cuckoo,
And he mourneth, he complaineth,
That the spring endures not always.
What should gild the wheat in harvest,
If the spring endured for ever?
How should apples in the garden
Ripen, were it always summer?
How should wheat-sheaf be upgather'd
If there were no time but autumn:
Luckless were the maiden's portion,
If forefated to be lonely.