In a cool, shady grotto it gushes,
Surrounded by sweet-perfumed flowers,
I call it my shrine for devotion,
There pass I my happiest hours.
White lilies, so pure, of the valley
Gather round it like children at home,
And violets creep to its margin,
For a kiss from its sparkling, bright foam;
The heart’s-ease peeps out from the clusters
Of lilies, to look in its face,