“My Rose is gone and I am desolate. Light of my eyes was she, now darkness reigns. Both day and night I weep disconsolate. My reason leaves me, and my spirit wanes. “Was it the gardener took her away And grieved my soul? If never more again I should behold her face, what shall I say? Instead of joy, I’ll sing of grief and pain. “Or else I fear the mighty wind arose, And blasted with its strength her petals frail; Or did the scorching sunbeams burn my Rose Within her leaves, and turn her beauty pale?... “I think perhaps the flowers were wroth with me And hid her from my sight; I’ll go to them. Or else the clouds in cruel enmity Sent hailstones down that broke her from the stem!” Then all the flowers together made reply, “We have no tidings of the Rose at all, She left us suddenly, we know not why. We have no tidings of the Rose at all.” The Nightingale then rose into the air, “I’ll ask the birds in friendly wise,” he said, “If they can tell me why she went, and where; If not, a sea of tears my eyes shall shed. “Birds, do you know what came to pass to-day? The lovely Rose was stolen from her home. Know you perchance who carried her away? Have you seen aught, or heard where she doth roam?” They said, “The Lord Creator knoweth all; No secrets of the heart from Him are hid. On Him as witness reverently we call— We have not seen or touched her—God forbid!” The Nightingale then sadly made reply, “What will become of me? From night to morn I have no rest, and I shall surely die, Parted from her, with ceaseless longings worn. “If in her stead the world to me were given I would esteem it but a paltry thing; If choirs of minstrels sang the songs of heaven, To me their songs as discords harsh would ring. “Oh, in what corner have they buried thee? How shall I e’er forget thy tenderness? My heart and soul are wounded grievously, All flowers are dead—this place a wilderness. “The Psalmist’s words are now fulfilled in me; Mournful I go, and like a pelican About the wilderness roam hopelessly, Or like an owl the sandy desert scan.” The gardener then with soothing words drew near, “Weep not, she will return, O Nightingale. The Violet, her forerunner, is here, And brings thee messages and words of hail.” Then he rejoiced and blessed the gardener, “May’st thou in peace upon this earth abide, Thy garden flourish with its bright allure, Its circling walls renew their former pride. “May all thy plants grow verdant once again, And gently sway about upon the breeze, May they receive fresh brightness from the rain, And waft sweet perfume human hearts to please!” Then did the Nightingale write a letter unto the Rose who collected all the Flowers and caused it to be read in their presence.