Pale leaves waver and whisper low 
  (Silvered leaves of the poplar tree), 
Waters wander and willows blow 
      In Picardie. 

Misty green of the orchard grass, 
  Grass-grown lanes by the sedge-fringed lea, 
Pleasant ways for the feet that pass 
      Through Picardie. 

Here the youth on a blue May night 
  Soft to his maiden's home steals he. 
Binds a bough to the lintel's height 
      Of dark fir tree. 

Gaston sigheth for Bernadette ! 
  (Sorrow to come -- or joy to be ?) 
This she knows by the token set 
      In secrecy. 

Long lagoons where the lilies lie 
  (Blossoms and buds of ivory). 
Sweet the meadows and fair the sky 
      Of  Picardie ! 

Where be the waters to drown regret ? 
  Where be the leaves of Sleep's own tree ? 
Nowhere else in the world -- nor yet 
      In Picardie.