I know a garden where the lilies gleam, And one who lingers in the sunshine there; She is than white-stoled lily far more fair, And oh, her eyes are heaven-lit with dream.
I know a garret, cold and dark and drear, And one who toils and toils with tireless pen, Until his brave, sad eyes grow weary—then He seeks the stars, pale, silent as a seer.
And ah, it’s strange, for desolate and dim Between these two there rolls an ocean wide; Yet he is in the garden by her side, And she is in the garret there with him.