In silent gardens in the spring in the darkness of the night

Sings above the rose from the east the nightingale;

But dear rose neither feeling has nor listens it

But under its lover’s hymn waveth it and slumbers.

Dost thou not sing thus to beauty cold?

Reflect O bard whither art thou striding?

She neither listens nor the bard she feels.

Thou gazest? Bloom she does; thou callest?—

Answer none she gives!