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.