From yon blue heaven above us bent, The grand old gardener and his wife Smile at the claims of long descent.

His honour rooted in dishonour stood, And faith unfaithful kept him falsely true.

Dowered with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, The love of love.

And common is the commonplace, And vacant chaff well meant for grain.

But while I breathe Heaven's air and Heaven looks down on me, And smiles at my best meanings, I remain Mistress of mine own self and mine own soul.

Oh that it were possible, After long grief and pain, To find the arms of my true love, Around me once again

...and our spirits rushed together at the touching of the lips.