My soul is sick of roses,
Of lilies proud and pale—
In scented garden closes
The old-time beauties fail.
And though the spell reposes
On every flower that grows,
My soul is sick of roses
Since she has scorned the rose.

My soul is sick of singing,
Of whispered strains and sighs;
Like kisses cloyed but clinging,
The spell of Music dies.
And though the world is ringing
With all its lyric tongues,
My soul is sick of singing
Since she has scorned my songs.