A. Mary F. Robinson-Darmesteter (1857–1944)

LAST night I met mine own true love

Waking in Paradise,

A halo shone above his hair,

A glory in his eyes.

We sat and sang in alleys green

And heard the angels play,

Believe me, this was true last night

Though it is false to-day.

II.

Through Paradise garden

A minstrel strays,

An old golden viol

For ever he plays.

Birds fly to his head,

Beasts lie at his feet,

For none of God’s angels

Make music so sweet.

And here, far from Zion

And lonely and mute,

I listen and long

For my heart is the lute.

III.

Sing, oh the flowers of Paradise

Rose, lily and girasole!

In all the fields of Paradise

Every flower is a soul.

A climbing bindweed you are there

With petals lily fine,

Around my rose-bush fragrant-fair

Your tendrils twist and twine.

Too close those slender tendrils cling,

Their sweet embrace is Death.

But o’er my dead red roses swing,

Your lilies wreath on wreath.

IV.

On the topmost branch of the Tree of Life

There hung a ripe red apple,

The angels singing underneath

All praised its crimson dapple.

They plucked it once to play at ball,

But ’mid the shouts and laughter

The apple fell o’er Heaven’s edge,

Sad angels looking after.

E’en while at ease to see it rest

Beside a peaceful chapel,

An old priest flung it farther still,

“Bah, what a battered apple!”