Lyrical Intermezzo, 23

O if the tiny flowers
But knew of my wounded heart,
Their tears, like mine, in showers
Would fall, to cure the smart.

If knew the nightingales only
That I’m so mournful and sad,
They would cheer my misery lonely
With their notes so tuneful and glad.

If the golden stars high o’er us
But knew of my bitter woe,
They would speak words of comfort in chorus,
Descending hither below.

Not one of these can allay it,
One only knows of my smart;
’Tis she, I grieve to say it,
Who thus hath wounded my heart.