Spectral birches, slim and white,

Stand apart in the cool moonlight,

The faint thin cries

Of the night arise

And the stars are out in companies.

They are but lamps on your palace stair,

My queen of the night with dusky hair,

Whose heart is a rose

In a garden close

And the gate is shut where the highway goes.

Margaret, Margaret, early and late

I knock and whisper without the gate.

No night wind blows,

Still is the rose,

Noiseless the flowing moonlight flows.

I knock and listen. No sound is heard.

The rose in its fragrance sleeps unstirred.

Early and late

I watch and wait

For the love of a rose by a garden gate.