There is a garden somewhere set,
Where singing birds abound,
And plashing founts the marble fret
With soft persistent sound;

Sorrow and sighing thence shall flee,
And none shall there intrude,
Save those who by simplicity
Have won beatitude.

The simple heart and simple mind,
Sincere in trust and troth,
From honest pleasure unconfin'd
For honest love unloth;

And there shall you be queen; but I,
Shall I find entrance too?
Or must I roam eternity,
To search, sweetheart, for you?