Convent Garden

The sun is setting now over Prague; The convent garden grows dark and vague.

Under our window falls darkness fast, But the nuns continue walking past.

Their bell ceased pealing and cold wind blows, And the last nun through the gate now goes.

The garden grows grey, and hark! child dear; The crickets song from there doest thou hear?

And the trees, too, like with secret tongue Do they not whisper a strange sweet song?

As though their crowns, green and huge and high, Had caught from somewhere a secret sigh.

And the song sounds so sadly and mild; Tell, doest thou understand, my dear child?

O thou doest understand, I know well— For thy lips’ passionate kisses tell.