Sweet is the breath of the fair, dewy morn, 
Sweet is the Spring when the Roses are born, 
Dear is the light of the eyes that we love, 
Dear is our welcome when homeward we rove; 

Dearer, still dearer, in joy or in strife, 
Dearer than all art thou, dearer than life! 
Tell me you love me again and again! 
Parted from thee, oh! the wearisome pain!
 
Morn has no beauty to equal thy face, 
Spring has no lilies to equal thy grace! 
Dear to me ever, in joy or in strife, 
Dearer than all art thou, dearer than life!