If it were fair to suppose
That your heart was not taken,
That the dew from the jasmine
Petals still were not shaken,
I should grasp you,
Nonetheless, you should thorn me and scorn me,
And wear you for life as the lime of the arbor.

If it were fair to suppose
That this road was for drifters,
That the wind and the rose,
Counted all in their aroma;
Oh, my beloved one,
My love, I should take you and make you,
The lime of my life from the glint time