From fragrant roots which in that blessed mould,
Watered by tears of penitential woe,
Drank deep of primal peace and balm divine,
When in the morn of time the tale was told
Of forfeit happiness and ruined shrine?
Tell me, O beauteous Spirit of the bower,
Is it thy gentle task when others sleep,
To guard all that a fallen world may keep
Of pristine bliss and lost felicities,
The fragrant memory of a purer hour,
The healing aroma of Paradise?"

Sweet then the blushing maid replied,
"Among the roses I abide,
I wake the bird, I watch the bee,
No greater toil is set for me;
But tell me, pray thee, with what charge indued
You wander in this quiet solitude."

And Atmâ spoke with joyful fervency,
"I hither came on embassy unguessed,
Most blissful vision of my raptured view,
The dusk delights of quietness and rest
Desired I, nor thought to bid adieu
To all content my fond heart ever knew.

Descending angels of my wisest dreams,
Ye kindly genii, bending from above,
Say, in th'allotment of my life's high themes,
Were hours left for love?