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There has fallen a splendid tear

From the passion-flower at the gate.

She is coming, my dove, my dear;

She is coming, my life, my fate;

The red rose cries, «She is near, she is near»;

And the white rose weeps, «She is late»;

The larkspur listens, «I hear, I hear»;

And the lily whispers, «I wait».^[4]

¿Era esto lo que los hombres canturreaban en los almuerzos antes de la guerra? ¿Y las mujeres?

My heart is like a singing bird

Whose nest is in a water’d shoot;

My heart is like an apple tree

Whose boughs are bent with thick-set fruit;

My heart is like a rainbow shell

That paddles in a halcyon sea;

My heart is gladder than all these

Because my love is come to me.^[5]

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