Close to our cottage is a bower,
Where sings the nightingale her lays,
All through the summer, many an hour,
And, in her pretty language, says,
Telling the secret o'er and o'er,—
"Lovers are wretched evermore!"
Beside the Cher a fountain flows,
And our two names were on the tree
Beside the gentle wave that grows,—
But none may now those letters see:
Time from the bark effaced each name,
But in our hearts they live the same.
The woes of love what case can shield!
No art its sorrows can remove.
The golden herb our meadows yield,
Alas! it cures all ills but love!
The nightingale sings o'er and o'er—
"Lovers are wretched evermore!"