Saint Valentine, Saint Valentine!

Oh, could you know how fair a maid—

So trim of dress, and so gold of tress,

You’d know why I’m afraid.

I see her pass, I smile and bow,

As I go up Murray Hill,

And I say to a foolish hope of mine:

Be still, be still, be still!

Saint Valentine, Saint Valentine,

Oh, could you see how close her gown