240
But my sweet rose, my Provence rose!
What can to thee compare?
There's not a single flower that blows,
So graceful, or so fair.
I've listened in the orange groves,
The blossomed dells of Spain—
Beneath her moon-lit skies, to love's
Soft, sweet, bewildering strain.
Through shrouding veils the flashes broke,
From eyes as bright as stars—
Whene'er the sweeping fingers woke
The notes of fond guitars.
But my wild rose, my Provence rose!
What can to thee compare?
There's not a single flower that blows
So precious, or so fair.
