I wander into my garden,
My garden of loves that are dead,
And stop at a withered rose bush
That once grew a blossom of red.
How passionately, true I loved it,
Thought without it I could not abide—
How bitter it is to remember
In a night it had withered and died.
The violet that grew on the hillside
I loved with a love that was true;
But 'twas snatched from me e'en as I held it—
O, Violet, dear, how I loved you!
And dearest of all, the sweet June Rose,
As a bud she'd come out first that year;
But I lost her just as I'd plucked her—
The heartless and pitiless dear!
The lily and pink that I worshipped
Each deigned but a season to stay,
And returned not again though I waited
And longed for them many a day.
Dear loves that are dead, hear me say it:
A loving good-bye to you all!
No more shall I visit this garden,
For my true love grows just o'er the wall.
Having loved you has made my love stronger
For her whom I now so adore;
I'd truly not know how to love her
Had I not loved you-all before.
Good-bye, then, again, fairest garden;
Good-bye to you all, fickle dears;
Dear Rosemary, last, fondest treasure,
Will be faithful to me through the years.