Young Love lies sleeping
In May-time of the year
Among the lilies
Lapped in tender light:
White lambs come grazing
White doves come building there;
And round about him
The May-bushes are white

Young Love lies dreaming;
But who can tell the dream?
A perfect sunlight
On rustling forest tips;
Or perfect moonlight
Upon a rippling stream;
Or perfect silence
Or songs of cherished lips

Draw close the curtains
Of branched evergreen;
Change cannot touch them
With fading fingers sere:
Here the first violets
Perhaps will bud unseen
And a dove, may be
Return to nestle here
Young Love lies sleeping
And round about him
The May bushes are white