It is sin to wish for the garden of roses
In the heart of wild mountains where no men go.
Laurin is king of a rosy garden.
The lure of the roses is rare, O rare!
They tremble and brighten and throb and glow ...
I may not think of King Laurin's garden.
A danger, they tell me, for maids is there.
There are four high gates to the garden of roses,
For the treasure of bloom a golden guard,
A precious cup for the rose-wine red.