After the ... questionable ... poetry I read here the other day, I thought about sharing something of Yeats (it was probably going to be The Song of Wandering Aengus) in honour of Ireland and all, but then I found this other one that was dated approximately 13-17th centuries. Anonymous, of course.
The son of the King of the River Muad, in midsummer, found a maiden in a greenwood: she gave him blackberries from the bushes, and as love-token, strawberries on a rush-tip.