Adown the grass-grown paths we strayed: The evening cowslips opedTheir yellow eyes to look at her;The love-sick lilies mopedWith envy that she rather chose To take a creamy-petalled roseAnd lean it 'gainst her ebon hair,All in that garden fair.
A languid breeze, with stolen scent Of box-bloom in his grasp,Sighed out his longing in her ear, And with his dying gaspScattered the perfume at her feetTo blend with others not less sweet:He loved her, but she did not care,All in that garden fair.
The rose she honoured nodded down: His comrades burst with spite:Poor fool! he knew not he was doomed To barely last the night.Are hearts to her but as that flower,The plaything of a careless hour,To lacerate and never spareAll in that garden fair?
I held her hand that I might trace Her fortune in its palm:A bolder moonbeam than the rest Crept up and kissed her arm,And, kissing once, was loth to leave,So hid himself within the sleeveThat clasped the lithe arm, white and bare,All in that garden fair.
I traced her fortune: love and wealth— Though life, alas! was short.But will that wealth be bought with love? Or love with wealth be bought?I know not: knowing only this—Her hand seemed waiting for a kiss:I longed to, but I did not dare,All in that garden fair.
But she, alas! is not for me,And I am not for her;Yet ever deep within my heart A faint regret must stir—A thrill of longing that amongThose moonlit paths with lover's tongueI might return, and woo her thereAll in that garden fair.