Some strange story I have read
Of a man without a soul.
Mind he had, though soul had fled;
Magic gave him gifts instead,
And the form of youth he stole.
Grows a rose-azalea white,
In my garden, near the way.
I who see it with delight,
Dream its soul of odor might,
In the past, have fled away.
Blanche ( O, sweet, you are so fair,
So sweet, so fair, whate'er you do ),
Twine no azalea in your hair,
Lest I think in my despair,
Heart and soul have left you too.