In the garden that I know,
Only palest blossoms blow.
There the lily, purest nun,
Hides her white face from the sun,
And the maiden rose-bud stirs
In a garment fair as hers.
One shy bird, with folded wings,
Sits within the leaves and sings;
Sits and sings the daylight long,
Just a patient plaintive song.
Other gardens greet the spring
With a blaze of blossoming;
Other song-birds, piping clear:
Chorus from the branches near:
But my blossoms, palest known,
Bloom for me and me alone;
And my birdling, sad and lonely,
Sings for me, and for me only.
