If the little flowers knew how deep
Is the wound that is in my heart,
Their tears with mine they'd weep,
For a balm to ease its smart.
If the nightingales knew how ill
And worn with woe I be,
They would cheerily carol and trill,
And all to bring joy to me.
If they knew, every golden star,
The anguish that racks me here,
They would come from their heights afar
To speak to me words of cheer.
But none of them all can know;
One only can tell my pain,
And she has herself - oh woe! -
She has rent my heart in twain.