Come into the garden, Maud,
For the black bat, night, has flown,
Come into the garden, Maud,
I am here at the gate alone ;
And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad,
And the musk of the rose is blown.

In her garden she grows [...]

The Narcissus are blooming. Little gold faced saints gazing at their own reflections. They are cruel to their lovers who pine away unto Echoes on the wind. Most beautiful things are a little sad really.