In the garden
G. Bantock
Come, my beloved,
Hearest thou my voice;
Shadows are murmuring
Through rustling leaves.
The silver sycamore
In the Northwind bending,
She is my messenger,
My Love, to thee.
Come, my beloved,
The beautiful bird
From Arabia is singing
to welcome thee.
But its myrrh-scented wings
Waft not such delight
As the kiss of my Love!