Here is the elm which spreads its shade over the path,
Here is the dog-rose,
The wood where silence sleeps,
The stone bench where, of an evening,
We used to sit.

Here is the scented bower of ebony and lilac,
Where, when we were weary,
My darling, together,
Under the festoons of blossom,
We’d wait for the heat of day to pass.

The air is pure, the grass, the view,
So, nothing’s changed, then, except you.