Of what use is my own garden
If, without love, it is now all barren
Dry and withered are the leaves
No more are they like the abstractives
Dull and morose are the flowers
No more do they sing like birds
Of what use is my own garden
If, without your touch, it is now so stricken!
Pining in my own awakening
I seek my own uplifting
Come, come, O new dawn, come to my aid
Come, with your light, I shall no more be afraid!
Come with the touch of my knight
With his smile and his eyes shining bright!
Meanwhile, I shall be, in all my lines
Trying out to reach him through all the combines!
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