I'LL never be a nun¹, I trow, While apple bloom is white as snow, But far more fair to see； I'll never wear nun's black and white While nightingales make sweet the night Within the apple tree.

    Ah, listen！ 'tis the nightingale, And in the wood he makes his wail², Within the apple tree； He singeth of the sore distress³ Of many ladies loverless； Thank God, no song for me.

    For when the broad May moon is low, A gold fruit seen where blossoms blow In the boughs⁴ of the apple tree, A step I know is at the gate； Ah love, but it is long to wait Until night's noon bring thee！

    Between lark's song and nightingale's A silent space, while dawning pales, The birds leave still and free For words and kisses musical, For silence and for sighs that fall In the dawn, 'twixt him and me.