I‘ ll never be a nun, I trow,
While apple bloom is white as snow.
But far more fair to see;
I‘ ll never wear nun's black and white
While nightingales make sweet the night
Within the apple tree.
Ah, listen!‘ tis the nightingale,
And in the wood he makes his wail,
Within the apple tree;
He singeth of the sore distress
Of many ladies loverless;
Thank God, no song for me.
For when the broad May moon is low,
A gold fruit seen where blossoms blow
In the boughs of the apple tree,
A step I know is at the gate;
Ah love, but it is long to wait
Until night's noon bring thee!
Between lark's song and nightingale's
A silent space, while dawning pales,
The birds leave still and free
For words and kisses musical,
For silence and for sighs that fall
In the dawn,‘ twixt him and me.